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