12-26-2017, 08:55 AM
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--
No more--and by a sleep
to say we end
The heartache, and
the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to. 'Tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wished.
To die, to sleep--
To sleep--perchance to dream: 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 law's 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 something after death,
The undiscovered country, from whose bourn
No traveller 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 enterprise of great pitch
and moment
With this regard their currents.
turn awry
And lose the name of action
. -- Soft you now,
The fair Ophelia! -- Nymph. , in thy orisons
Be all my sins
remembered.
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--
No more--and by a sleep
to say we end
The heartache, and
the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to. 'Tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wished.
To die, to sleep--
To sleep--perchance to dream: 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 law's 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 something after death,
The undiscovered country, from whose bourn
No traveller 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 enterprise of great pitch
and moment
With this regard their currents.
turn awry
And lose the name of action
. -- Soft you now,
The fair Ophelia! -- Nymph. , in thy orisons
Be all my sins
remembered.
