| To be or not to be, that is the question; |
| Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer |
| The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, |
| Or to take arms against a sea of troubles, |
| And by opposing, end them. To die, to sleep; |
| No more; and by a sleep to say we end |
| The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks |
| That flesh is heir to ? 'tis a consummation |
| Devoutly to be wish'd. To die, to sleep; |
| To sleep, perchance to dream. Ay, there's the rub, |
| For in that sleep of death what dreams may come, |
| When we have shuffled off this mortal coil, |
| Must give us pause. There's the respect |
| That makes calamity of so long life, |
| For who would bear the whips and scorns of time, |
| Th'oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely, |
| The pangs of despised love, the law's delay, |
| The insolence of office, and the spurns |
| That patient merit of th'unworthy takes, |
| When he himself might his quietus make |
| With a bare bodkin? who would fardels bear, |
| To grunt and sweat under a weary life, |
| But that the dread of something after death, |
| The undiscovered country from whose bourn |
| No traveller returns, puzzles the will, |
| And makes us rather bear those ills we have |
| Than fly to others that we know not of? |
| Thus conscience does make cowards of us all, |
| And thus the native hue of resolution |
| Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought, |
| And enterprises of great pitch and moment |
| With this regard their currents turn awry, |
| And lose the name of action. |
