from Hamlet (3/1), William Shakespeare

　　To be, or not to be: that is the question:

　　Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer

　　The slings¹ and arrows of outrageous² 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

　　Devoutly³ 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 shuffled⁴ off this mortal coil,

　　Must give us pause: there's the respect

　　That makes calamity⁵ of so long life;

　　For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,

　　The oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely,

　　The pangs⁶ of despised love, the law's delay,

　　The insolence⁷ of office and the spurns⁸

　　That patient merit of the unworthy takes,

　　When he himself might his quietus make

　　With a bare bodkin? who would fardels bear,

　　To grunt⁹ and sweat under a weary life,

　　But that the dread¹⁰ of something after death,

　　The undiscover'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 hue¹¹ 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 awry¹²,

　　And lose the name of action. - Soft you now!

　　The fair Ophelia! Nymph, in thy orisons

　　Be all my sins remember'd.