With this regard their currents turn awry Is sicklied o’er with the pale cast of thought,Īnd enterprises of great pitch and moment Thus conscience does make cowards of us all, The undiscover’d country, from whose bournĪnd makes us rather bear those ills we have With a bare bodkin? Who would fardels bear,īut that the dread of something after death, The pangs of dispriz’d love, the law’s delay, Th’oppressor’s wrong, the proud man’s contumely, When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,įor who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
To sleep, perchance to dream-ay, there’s the rub:įor in that sleep of death what dreams may come, That flesh is heir to: ’tis a consummation The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks Or to take arms against a sea of troublesĪnd by opposing end them.
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, Whether ’tis nobler in the mind to suffer To be, or not to be, that is the question: First, here’s a reminder of Hamlet’s words:
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