/lit/ - Literature

>Steadman

>>15175170

>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.
>For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
>Th'oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely,
>The pangs of dispriz'd love, the law's delay,
>The insolence of office, and the spurns
>That patient merit of th'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 undiscovere'd country, from whose bourn
>No traveller returns, puzzles the will,
>And makes 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 thus the native hue of resolution
>Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought,
>And enterprises of great pitch and moment
>With this regard their currents turn awry
>And lose the name of action.