(no subject)
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 sleep to say we end the heart aches and the thousand natural shocks that flesh is heir to
T'is a consumation devoutly to be wished
To die, to sleep-to sleep perchance to dream
Aye 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
th'oppressors Wrong, the proudman's contumely
The pangs of despised love, the law's delay
the inssolence of office, and the Spurns that patient merit of th'unworthy takes
when he himself might 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 traveler returns.
puzzles the will and makes us rather bear those ills we have
rather than fly to those we know not of
Thus concience does make fools of us all
and thus the native hue of resolution is sicklied o'er to the pale thought
and enterprises of great sight and moment.
With this regard their currents turn awry, and lose the name of action.
i didnt go to school today because i had to have this memorized for a major grade..fckjaengk,ffsed
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 sleep to say we end the heart aches and the thousand natural shocks that flesh is heir to
T'is a consumation devoutly to be wished
To die, to sleep-to sleep perchance to dream
Aye 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
th'oppressors Wrong, the proudman's contumely
The pangs of despised love, the law's delay
the inssolence of office, and the Spurns that patient merit of th'unworthy takes
when he himself might 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 traveler returns.
puzzles the will and makes us rather bear those ills we have
rather than fly to those we know not of
Thus concience does make fools of us all
and thus the native hue of resolution is sicklied o'er to the pale thought
and enterprises of great sight and moment.
With this regard their currents turn awry, and lose the name of action.
i didnt go to school today because i had to have this memorized for a major grade..fckjaengk,ffsed