SPCAM

To be, or not to be, that is the question:<br>Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer<br>The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,<br>Or to take arms against a sea of troubles<br>And by opposing end them. To die—to sleep,<br>No more; and by a sleep to say we end<br>The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks<br>That flesh is heir to: 'tis a consummation<br>Devoutly to be wish'd. To die, to sleep;<br>To sleep, perchance to dream—ay, there's the rub:<br>For in that sleep of death what dreams may come,<br>When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,<br>Must give us pause—there's the respect<br>That makes calamity of so long life.<br>For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,<br>Th'oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely,<br>The pangs of dispriz'd love, the law's delay,<br>The insolence of office, and the spurns<br>That patient merit of th'unworthy takes,<br>When he himself might his quietus make<br>With a bare bodkin? Who would fardels bear,<br>To grunt and sweat under a weary life,<br>But that the dread of something after death,<br>The undiscovere'd country, from whose bourn<br>No traveller returns, puzzles the will,<br>And makes us rather bear those ills we have<br>Than fly to others that we know not of?<br>Thus conscience doth make cowards of us all,<br>And thus the native hue of resolution<br>Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought,<br>And enterprises of great pith and moment<br>With this regard their currents turn awry<br>And lose the name of action.