to be, or not to be, that is the question whether tis nobler in the mind to suff er 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 s ay we end the heartache and the thousand natural shocks that flesh is heir to ti s a consummation devoutly to be wishd. to die, to sleep to sleep, perchance to d ream ay, theres the rub for in that sleep of death what dreams may come, when we have shuffled off this mortal coil, must give us pause theres the respect that makes calamity of so long life. for who would bear the whips and scorns of time, the oppressors wrong, the proud mans contumely, the pangs of disprized love, th e laws 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 wo uld fardels bear, to grunt and sweat under a weary life, but that the dread of s omething after death, the undiscovered country, from whose bourn no traveller re turns, 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 thu s the native hue of resolution is sicklied oer with the pale cast of thought, an d enterprises of great pitch and moment with this regard their currents turn awr y and lose the name of action.
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