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- To be, or not to be: that is the question:Whether ’tis nobler in the mind to 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 heart-ache and the thousand natural shocksThat flesh is heir to, ’tis a consummationDevoutly to be wish’d. To die, to sleep;
- To sleep: perchance to dream: ay, there’s the rub;For in that sleep of death what dreams may comeWhen we have shuffled off this mortal coil,Must give us pause: there’s the respectThat makes calamity of so long life;For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,The oppressor’s wrong, the proud man’s contumely, The pangs of despised love, the law’s delay,The insolence of office and the spurnsThat patient merit of the unworthy takes,
- When he himself might his quietus make.With a bare bodkin? who would farewells bear,To grunt and sweat under a weary life, But that the dread of something after death, The undiscovered country from whose burn No traveler returns, puzzles the will And makes us rather bear those ills we have.
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