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.
No more and by a sleep to say we end the headache, and the thousand natural shocks that flesh is heir to. ‘Tis a consummation devoutly to be wished.
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 th, oppressor’s wrong, the proud man’s contumely the pangs of despised love, the, laws delay, the insolence of office, and the spurns that patient merit of th’ 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 the something after death, the undiscovered country, from whose bourn no traveler returns, puzzles the will, and make us rather bear those ills we have than fly to others