To be, or not to be: that is the question: - Whether to live or to die: that is the question:
Whether ’tis nobler in the mind to suffer - Is it better to suffer mentally
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, - The stumbling blocks of destiny,
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles, - Or attack the problems,
And by opposing end them? To die: to sleep; - And end them by opposition? To die; to sleep;
No more; and by a sleep to say we end - No more sleeping; and yet by sleep we end
The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks - all the heart ache and pain
That flesh is heir to, ’tis a consummation - That people are doomed to face.
Devoutly to be wish’d. To die, to sleep; - It is something I desire: to die and sleep...
To sleep: perchance to dream: ay, there’s the rub; - To die: possibly see the afterlife: there's the problem
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come - For in death's sleep what might happen
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil, - When we no longer belong to our mortal bodies,
Must give us pause: there’s the respect - Must make us stop and think: there's the thing
That makes calamity of so long life; - That makes our troubles last so long
For who would bear the whips and scorns of time, - For who would withstand the whips and scorns of time,
The oppressor’s wrong, the proud man’s contumely, - The wrongs of the oppressor, the proud mans insults,
The pangs of despised love, the law’s delay, - The pains of unreturned love, the delay of justice,
The insolence of office and the spurns - The scorn of officials and the rejection
That patient merit of the unworthy takes, - That happens to those who don't deserve it,
When he himself might his quietus make - When he himself might end it all
With a bare bodkin? who would fardels bear, - With a mere knife? Who would bear the burden,
To grunt and sweat under a weary life, - The blood, sweat, and tears of a labored life,
But that the dread of something after death, - But the fear and dread of life after death,
The undiscover’d country from whose bourn - The unknown land from which
No traveller returns, puzzles the will - No one returns, confuses the mind
And makes us rather bear those ills we have - And makes us prefer to bear the burdens of life
Than fly to others that we know not of? - Rather than face the unknown troubles of death.
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all; - Thus our thinking does make cowards of us all;
And thus the native hue of resolution - And so the natural color of courage
Is sicklied o’er with the pale cast of thought, - Is sickened by the paleness of thought,
And enterprises of great pith and moment - And actions of great importance
With this regard their currents turn awry, - With this thinking in mind, are forgotten,
And lose the name of action.–Soft you now! - And lose their reputation. Quiet!
The fair Ophelia! Nymph, in thy orisons - The beautiful Ophelia! Fair lady, remember my sins
Be all my sins remember’d. in your prayers.
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