To be, or not to be, that is the question:
Whether it is nobler to suffer
The slings and arrows of an unbearable situation,
Or to declare war on the seas of troubles that afflict one,
And by opposing them, to end them. To die, to sleep-
And with that sleep we end
The heartaches and the thousand natural miseries
That humans have to endure
It is an end that we all hope for. To die, to sleep-
To sleep. Perhaps a dream. There’s the obstacle,
Because in that sleep of death the dreams we might have,
When we have shed this mortal body,
Must make us pause. That’s the respect
That creates the calamity of such a long life:
For who would bare all the horrible things of this world,
The tyrant’s offenses against us, the contempt of proud men,
The pain of rejected love,
The insolence of authority, and the advantage
That the worst people take of the best,
When one could just release himself
With a blade. Who would carry this load?
Grunting and sweating under the burden of a weary life,
If it weren’t for the dread of the afterlife,
The undiscovered country from whose border
No traveler returns. That is what confounds us,
And makes us put up with the evils we know,
Rather than hurry to ones we don’t know about.
This reflection does make cowards of us all,
And follows the natural complexion of resolution
To end our life is obscured by reflecting on it.
And great and important plans are diluted,
To the point where we don’t do anything.
The fair Ophelia. Listen to my prayers.
Let all of my sins be remembered.
Actual text
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.
Actual text
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.
