To be, or not to be, that is the question:
Whether
'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 to say we end
The
heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh
is heir to: 'tis a consummation
Devoutly to
be wish'd. To die, to sleep;
To sleep, perchance 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.
