Hamlet

To be, or not to be: that is the question:  Hamlet is questioning suicide.
Whether ’tis nobler in the mind to suffer   He wonders if it is nobler to live through misery
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, and all of the misfortunes life throws at you
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles, or to take arms and kill yourself thus ending all of your troubles.
And by opposing end them? To die: to sleep; In essence, to oppose would be to end them.  So what shall it be?  Death or life? 
No more; and by a sleep to say we end  No more misery if I were to take a deep sleep/death
The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks  All of those moments of heart-ache
That flesh is heir to, ’tis a consummation that we are destined to bear
Devoutly to be wish’d. To die, to sleep; can end if we die.
To sleep: perchance to dream: ay, there’s the rub; But if we were to take our life and bring death/sleep upon oneself what will our everlasting dream be?
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come  What dreams will come
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,  after we have wastefully killed oneself.
Must give us pause: there’s the respect  It is this very reason
That makes calamity of so long life;  that people live so long.
For who would bear the whips and scorns of time, For why would someone bear the pains of life
The oppressor’s wrong, the proud man’s contumely, such as an oppressor's wrong or contemptuous language,
The pangs of despised love, the law’s delay, or the pangs of love and law's delay,
The insolence of office and the spurns or insolence,
That patient merit of the unworthy takes, or the failings of undertakings,
When he himself might his quietus make  when one can end their life
With a bare bodkin? who would fardels bear, with a large blunt needle?
To grunt and sweat under a weary life, It is because, even after so much grunt and sweat in life,
But that the dread of something after death, the dread of something after life keeps us living.
The undiscover’d country from whose bourn  The unknown of such a place as death
No traveller returns, puzzles the will   where no one ever returns and where death is such a mystery to us
And makes us rather bear those ills we have that we would rather bear life's pain
Than fly to others that we know not of?  than to quickly turn to the unknown pain's that wait for us after death.
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all;  It is this conscience that makes us all cowards and prevents oneself from taking our life.
And thus the native hue of resolution  So now I have turned pale
Is sicklied o’er with the pale cast of thought,  over this new theory of thought.
And enterprises of great pith and moment  Now all great undertakings of mine
With this regard their currents turn awry, turn to one side.
And lose the name of action.–Soft you now!   And all of my motivation to take action is lost.
The fair Ophelia! Nymph, in thy orisons  Ophelia! 
Be all my sins remember’d.  Pray for me!