Zr(r bAr (sIlsWH(n f-2(rsTWKntF? (s“6s ds m/cwrdsFZL&(s ’n85hUFrs1l6Zsk1lEdOrW’pAl cstF(t& 3prIzsFgr8pt(&m07W(s rgrd (r cr¢s trn wA&1Us’nAmFct6.
To be, or not to be, that is the question:
Whether 't is 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 heart-ache, and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to,—'t is 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 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 oppressoy’s wrong, the proud man’s contumely,
The pangs of dispriz’d 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 these 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 pate cast of thought;
And enterprises of great pith and moment,
With this regard, their currents turn away,
And lose the name of action.
Whether 't is 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 heart-ache, and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to,—'t is 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 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 oppressoy’s wrong, the proud man’s contumely,
The pangs of dispriz’d 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 these 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 pate cast of thought;
And enterprises of great pith and moment,
With this regard, their currents turn away,
And lose the name of action.
36
