Hamlet Project
Storyboard Text
- No more; and by a sleep to say we end The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks The flesh is heir to, 'tis a consummation Devoutly to be wish'd. To die, to sleep; To sleep: perchance to dream: ay, there's the rub;
- To be, or not to be: that is the question: 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? To die: to sleep;
- 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 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 spurns That patient of the 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 something after death, The undercover'd country from whose bourn No traveler returns, puzzles the will
- And makes us rather bear those ills we have Than fly to others that we know not of? Thus conscience does make cowards of us all; And thus the native hue of resolution Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought,
- And enterprises of great pith and moment With this regard their currents turn awry, And lose the name of action.-Soft you know! The fair Ophelia! Nymph, in thy orisons Be all my sins remember'd.
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