HAMLET
To be, or not to be: that is the question:
Whether ātis 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, ātis a consummation
Devoutly to be wishād. To die, to sleep;
To sleep: perchance to dream: ay, thereās the rub;
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause: thereās the respect
That makes calamity of so long life;
For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
The oppressorās wrong, the proud manās contumely,
The pangs of despised love, the lawās delay,
The insolence of office and the spurns
That patient merit of the 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 undiscoverād 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 pith and moment
With this regard their currents turn awry,
And lose the name of action.āSoft you now!
The fair Ophelia! Nymph, in thy orisons
Be all my sins rememberād.
stormborns
discoholicmusic
areudirty
origamiaround
turnnoffyourmind
