To be or not to be, that is the question. Whether it is 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 heartache 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, aye, 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? The oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely.
The past. of despised love. The law's 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 false bear to grunt and sweat under a weary life but the dread? of something after death the undiscovered country from whose born no traveler returns Hustles the will and makes us rather bear those ills we have than fly to others that we know not of.
Thus, conscience doth make cowards of us all, and thus, the native hue of resolution is sickled 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. Action.