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 flash is heir to, tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wished.
To die, to sleep;
To sleep erchance 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 life;
For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
The pangs of disprized love, the law's 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 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 make 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 Is sicklied o'er
With the pale cast of thought
And enterprises of great pith and moment
With this regard their currents turn away,
And lose the name of action.
William Shakespeare
