Ham. To be, or
not to be: that is the ques-
tion:
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,
The oppressor's wrong, the proud
man's con-
tumely,
The pangs of disprized love, the
law's delay,
The insolence of office, and the
spurns
That patient merit of the 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
ls sicklied o'er with the pale cast
of thought,
And enterprises of great pith 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 remember'd.
