To be or not to be, that is the question. Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer the slings and arrows of ourageous 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 we say we end the heartache and the thousand natural heirs that flesh is heir to.'Tis a consumption devoutly to be wished. To die, to sleep, to sleep perchance to dream. Aye, there's the rub for in that sleep of death what dreams may come as we have shuffled off this mortal coil must give us pause. There's the respect that makes clamity of so long life. For who would bear the whips and scorns of time, the oppressors wrong, the laws delay, the insolence of office, and the spurns that merit of the unworthy takes when he himself might his queitus make with a bare bodkin. Who would fardels bear to grunt and sweat under a weary life, but that the threat of something after death that undiscovered country from whose bourne no traveler returns puzzles the will and makes us rather bear the ills we have than fly to others that we know not of. thus conscious 'doth make cowards of us all and thus the native hue of resolution is sicklied o'erd by 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
To be or not to be, that is the question. Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer the slings and arrows of ourageous 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 we say we end the heartache and the thousand natural heirs that flesh is heir to.'Tis a consumption devoutly to be wished. To die, to sleep, to sleep perchance to dream. Aye, there's the rub for in that sleep of death what dreams may come as we have shuffled off this mortal coil must give us pause. There's the respect that makes clamity of so long life. For who would bear the whips and scorns of time, the oppressors wrong, the laws delay, the insolence of office, and the spurns that merit of the unworthy takes when he himself might his queitus make with a bare bodkin. Who would fardels bear to grunt and sweat under a weary life, but that the threat of something after death that undiscovered country from whose bourne no traveler returns puzzles the will and makes us rather bear the ills we have than fly to others that we know not of. thus conscious 'doth make cowards of us all and thus the native hue of resolution is sicklied o'erd by 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