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to be or not to be, that is the questions
weather 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 we say we end
the heart ache and the thousand natural shocks
that flesh is heir to. tis a consummation
devoutly to be wished. to die to sleep
to sleep perchance to dream. Ay there's the rub
for in the sleep of death what dreams my 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 oppressors wrongs, the proud man's contumley
the pangs of deprized love, the law's delay
the insolence of office, and the spurns
that patient merit of the unworthy takes
when he himself might his quitus 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, puzzels the will
and makes us rather bear those ills we have
than to fly to others that we no not of?
thus contious does make cowards of us all
and thus the native hue of resolution
is sicklied over with the pale cast of thought
and enterpirses of great pitch and moment
with this regaurd in the currents turn arwy
and lose the name of action. soft you now
the fair ophilia. nymph in the orison
be all my sins remembered.
weather 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 we say we end
the heart ache and the thousand natural shocks
that flesh is heir to. tis a consummation
devoutly to be wished. to die to sleep
to sleep perchance to dream. Ay there's the rub
for in the sleep of death what dreams my 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 oppressors wrongs, the proud man's contumley
the pangs of deprized love, the law's delay
the insolence of office, and the spurns
that patient merit of the unworthy takes
when he himself might his quitus 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, puzzels the will
and makes us rather bear those ills we have
than to fly to others that we no not of?
thus contious does make cowards of us all
and thus the native hue of resolution
is sicklied over with the pale cast of thought
and enterpirses of great pitch and moment
with this regaurd in the currents turn arwy
and lose the name of action. soft you now
the fair ophilia. nymph in the orison
be all my sins remembered.