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- To be, or not to be? That is the question.
- For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,Th’ oppressor’s wrong, the proud man’s contumely,The pangs of despised love, the law’s delay,The insolence of office, andthe spurnsThat patient merit of th’ unworthy takes,When he himself might hisquietus makeWith a bare bodkin? Who would fardels bear,to grunt and sweat under aweary life,But that the dread of something after death,The undiscovered country from whose bournNo traveler returns, puzzlesthe will
- Whether ’tis nobler in the mindto sufferThe 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 endThe heartache and the thousand natural shocksThat flesh is heir to—’tis a consummationDevoutly to be wished! To die, to sleep.
- Must give us pause. There’s the respectWhen we have shuffled off this mortal coil,For in that sleep of death what dreams may comeTo sleep, perchance to dream—ay, there’s the rub,That makes calamity of so long life.
- And makes us rather bear those ills we haveThan fly to others that we know not of?Thus conscience does make cowards of us all,And thus the native hue of resolutionis sicklied o’er with the pale cast of thought,And enterprises of great pitch and momentWith this regard their currents turn awry,And lose the name of action. —Soft you now,the fair Ophelia! —Nymph, in thy orisonsBe all my sins remembered.
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