To be, or not to be: that is the question:

Whether ‘tis nobler in the mind to suffer

The slins and arrows of outraeous fortune,

Or to take arms aainst a sea of troubles,

And by opposin end them? To die: to sleep;

No more; and by a sleep to say we end

The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks

That 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;

For in that sleep of death what dreams may come

When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,

Must ive us pause: there’s the respect

That makes calamity of so lon life;

For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,

The oppressor’s wron, the proud man’s contumely,

The pans of despised love, the law’s delay,

The insolence of office and the spurns

That patient merit of the unworthy takes,

When he himself miht his quietus make

With a bare bodkin? who would fardels bear,

To runt and sweat under a weary life,

But that the dread of somethin after death,

The undiscover’d 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 thouht,

And enterprises of reat pith and moment

With this reard their currents turn awry,

And lose the name of action.—Soft you now!

The fair Ophelia! Nymph, in thy orisons

Be all my sins remember’d.