Hamlet: To be, or not to be, that is the question, Whether ’tis nobler in the minde to suffer The slings and arrowes of outrageous fortune, Or to take Armes against a sea of troubles, And by opposing, end them. To die, to sleepe, No more, and by a sleepe, to say we end The heartache and the thousand naturall shocks That flesh is heire to; ’tis a consummation Devoutly to be wisht. To die to sleepe, To sleepe, perchance to dreame, aye there’s the rub, For in that sleepe of death what dreames may come When we have shuffled off this mortall coil Must give us pause. There’s the respect That makes calamitie of so long life: For who would beare the whips and scornes of time, Th’oppressor’s wrong, the proude man’s contumely, The pangs of dispriz’d love, the law’s delay, The insolence of office, and the spurnes That patient merit of th’unworthy takes, When he himselfe might his quietus make With a bare bodkin? Who would fardels bear, To grunt and sweat under a wearie life, But that the dread of something after death, The undiscover’d country from whose bourn No traveler returnes, puzzles the will, And makes us rather beare those ills we have, Than fly to others that we know not of. Thus conscience does make cowards of us all, And thus the native hew of resolution Is sicklied o’er with the pale cast of thought, And enterprises of great pitch and moment With this regard their currents turne awry, And lose the name of action. Soft you now, The faire Ophelia, Nymph in thy orisons, Be all my sinnes remembered.