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
despis'd 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 undiscover'd
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. - Soft you now,
The fair
Ophelia. Nymph, in thy orisons
Be all my sins
rememb'red.
William Shakespeare
