| 1 |
To be or not to be-that is the question: |
| 2 |
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer |
| 3 |
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, |
| 4 |
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles, |
| 5 |
And, by opposing, end them. To die, to sleep- |
| 6 |
No more-and by a sleep to say we end |
| 7 |
The heartache and the thousand natural shocks |
| 8 |
That flesh is heir to-'tis a consummation |
| 9 |
Devoutly to be wished. To die, to sleep- |
| 10 |
To sleep, perchance to dream. Aye, there's the rub, |
| 11 |
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come, |
| 12 |
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil, |
| 13 |
Must give us pause. There's the respect |
| 14 |
That makes calamity of so long life. |
| 15 |
For who would bear the whips and scorns of time, |
| 16 |
Th' oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely, |
| 17 |
The pangs of despised love, the law’s delay, |
| 18 |
The insolence of office, and the spurns |
| 19 |
That patient merit of the unworthy takes, |
| 20 |
When he himself might his quietus make |
| 21 |
With a bare bodkin? Who would fardels bear, |
| 22 |
To grunt and sweat under a weary life, |
| 23 |
But that the dread of something after death, |
| 24 |
The undiscovered country from whose bourn |
| 25 |
No traveler returns, puzzles the will |
| 26 |
And makes us rather bear those ills we have |
| 27 |
Than fly to others that we know not of? |
| 28 |
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all, |
| 29 |
And thus the native hue of resolution |
| 30 |
Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought, |
| 31 |
And enterprises of great pitch and moment, |
| 32 |
With this regard their currents turn awry, |
| 33 |
And lose the name of action.-Soft you now, |
| 34 |
The fair Ophelia.-Nymph, in thy orisons |
| 35 |
Be all my sins remembered |
