To be, or not to be: that is the question, whether it's 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, it's 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, 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 merit 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
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 or 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.