to be here 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 heartache and the thousand
natural shocks the flesh is heir to tis
a consummation devoutly to be wish'd
to die to sleep perchance to dream
here'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 and there's the respect that
makes calamity of so long a life for who
would bear the whips and scorns of time
proud man's contumely the insolence of
office to laws delay the pangs of
despised love he himself might his own
Quietus make with a bare bodkin who
would fardels bear to grunt and sweat
under a weary life
we're not the dread of something after
death the undiscovered country whose
Bourn no traveler returns puzzles the
will and makes us rather bear those ills
we have than fly to others we know not
of
and 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 in this regard their currents
turn awry
and lose the name of action