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To be or not to be, that is the question.
Wheter ‘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 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 of 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 love’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 undiscover’d country from Whose bourn no travellers returns, puzzles the will,
And makes us rather bear those ills we have than fly to
Others that we know not off?
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 pitch and moment,
with this regard their currents turn Awry, and lose the name of action.
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Le bRaVe rAgAzZe vaNno in paRadiSo
