To be or not to be, that is the question:
Whether the noble suffers in the head
The slingshots and arrows of unprecedented fortune
Or take your arms against a sea of ​​trouble
And by fighting them. Dying, sleeping -
No more - and through a sleep we say, we end
The pain and the thousand natural vibrations
This meat is the heir. It is a perfection
Worshipful to be desired. Dying, sleeping -
To sleep - maybe to dream:
For what dreams can come
If we wiped that deadly coil,
Have to give us a break. There is the respect
That makes a misfortune so long life.
Who would bear the whips and the contempt of time,
The oppressor is wrong, the present man has fallen silent
The pain of despised love, the delay of the law,
The impudence of the office and the spurs
The merit of the patient of the unworthy takes
If he does his rest, do it
With a naked Bodkin? Who would wear fardels,
It grunts and sweats under a tired life,
But that the fear of something after death,
The undiscovered country, from whom
No traveler returns, confused the will,
And we make it rather tolerable, which evil we have
Then fly to others we do not know about?
So conscience does cowards of us all,
And thus the native hue of the resolution
Is sick with the pale train of thought,
And the business of great pitch and moment
In this regard, their currents go wrong
And lose the name of the action.