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 havе shuffled off this mortal coil

Must give us pause. Thеre’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 enterprises of great pitch and moment

With this regard their currents turn awry

And lose the name of action