Hamlet, Prince Of Denmark - V:3.1.60

HAMLET 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,

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 wished. 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 calamit 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 disprized love, the law's delay,

The insolence of office, and the spurns

That patient merit of th'unworth takes,

When he himself might his queitus 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 makes 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 regards their currents turn awry