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 despised 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 undiscovered 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[1] and moment
With this regard their currents turn awry,
And lose the name of action.[2]
« Spanish »
To be or not to be, that one is the question; If ' tis more noble in
the mind to undergo the slings and the arrows of the indignante
fortune, or to take the arms against a sea from hardships, and
opposing, finish them. In order to die, to sleep; Not more; and by a
dream to say we were finished to the anguish and the thousand natural
shocks that the meat is inheriting - ' tis consummation Devoutly to be
wish'd. In order to die, to sleep; In order to sleep, perchance to
dream. Ay, is the frotación, stops in that dream of the death what
dreams can come, when we have mixed ourselves of this mortal coil,
must give pause us. There is the respect that makes calamity of so
long life, for whom bear you whip them and badly despises of time, of
Th'oppressor, contumelia of the proud man, the jabs of the scorned
love, the law it delays, insolence of the office, and despises that
patient merit of takings th'unworthy, when it itself can be that its
death of grace does with bodkin bare? who fardels takes, to gruñir
and to sweat underneath a tired life, but of that one the pavor
something after the death, the country without discovering that from
Bourn no traveller we return, we disturbed the will, and we do that
something we took those diseases to have fly to which we know no? Thus
the conscience makes to cowardly of us all, and the native tonality of
the resolution is thus sicklied óer with the pale mold of the
thought, and the companies of great pitch[1 ] and the moment with this
respect that their currents give return bad, and lose the name of
action.[2
