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The slings and arrows of outrageous64 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 heartache and the thousand natural shocks68
That flesh is heir to: 'tis a consummation69
Devoutly to be wished. To die, to sleep:
To sleep, perchance to dream: ay, there's the rub71,
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil73,
Must give us pause: there's the respect74
That makes calamity of so long life75,
For who would bear the whips and scorns76 of time,
The oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely77,
The pangs of disprized78 love, the law's delay,
The insolence of office and the spurns79
That patient merit of the unworthy takes80,
When he himself might his quietus81 make
With a bare bodkin? Who would these fardels82 bea
r,
To grunt and sweat under a weary life,
But that the dread of something after death,
The undiscovered country from whose bourn85
No traveller returns, puzzles86 the will,
And makes us rather bear those ills we have
Than fly to others that we know not of?
Thus conscience89 does make cowards of us all:
And thus the native hue90 of resolution
Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast91 of thought,
And enterprises of great pith and moment92
