|
"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 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 oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely,
The pangs of despis'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 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 naught 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."
Hamlet, Act III, Scene I, by William Shakespeare
|
