Hamlet
by tjpalumb
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 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 give us pause. There's the respect that makes calamity of so long a life, for who would bear the whips and scorns of time, Th'oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely, the pangs of disprized love, the law's delay, the insolence of office, and the spurns that patient merit of the'unworthy takes, Whe 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 Then fly to other that we know not of? THUS CONSCIENCE DOES MAKE COWARDS OF US ALL!
Thus the native hue of resolution Is sicklied oer with the pale cast of though. ..Soft you now, The Fair Ophelia!--Nymph in thy orisons, be all my sins remembered.
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