| Act 3, Scene 1 |
| To
be, or not to be: that is the question: |
|
To
live or to die, that is the question. |
| Whether
‘tis nobler in the mind to suffer |
65 |
Is
it nobler to suffer |
| The
slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, |
|
the
pains of outrageous misfortune (to live |
| Or
to take arms against a sea of troubles, |
|
miserably)
or to end one’s sorrows with a single |
| And
by opposing end them? To die: to sleep; |
|
stroke
(to commit suicide)? To die is to sleep, |
| No
more; and by a sleep to say we end |
|
and
no more. And by sleeping we would end |
| The
heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks |
70 |
the
heartaches and countless pains that are an |
| That
flesh is heir to, ‘tis a consummation |
|
inescapable
part of living. It is an end |
| Devoutly
to be wish’d. To die, to sleep; |
|
devoutly
to be wished for. To die, to sleep; |
| To
sleep: perchance to dream: ay, there’s the rub;
|
|
and
perhaps to dream: ah, and there’s the |
| For
in that sleep of death what dreams may come |
|
difficulty:
because we do not know what may |
| When
we have shuffled off this mortal coil, |
75 |
come
after death (mortal coil = body), |
| Must
give us pause: there's the respect |
|
we
must pause and consider: it is this uncertainty |
| That
makes calamity of so long life; |
|
that
makes us endure the troubles of life for so |
| For
who would bear the whips and scorns of time, |
|
long.
For who would bear the hardships of time, |
| The
oppressor’s wrong, the proud man’s contumely, |
|
the
wrongs of others*, the insults of proud men**, |
| The
pangs of despised love, the law’s delay, |
80 |
the
heartaches of unrequited love†, the tardiness |
| The
insolence of office and the spurns |
|
of
the law, the insolence of those in office, and |
| That
patient merit of the unworthy takes, |
|
the
scorn of those he has treated with unmerited |
| When
he himself might his quietus make |
|
patience,
when he could cause his own death |
| With
a bare bodkin? Who would fardels bear, |
|
with
a mere knife? Who would bear these |
| To
grunt and sweat under a weary life, |
85 |
burdens,
and grunt and sweat under a weary life, |
| But
that the dread of something after death, |
|
if
there were no fear of the unknown after death, |
| The
undiscover’d country from whose bourn |
|
the
undiscovered country from whose frontier |
| No
traveler returns, puzzles the will |
|
no
one returns, which paralyzes the will |
| And
makes us rather bear those ills we have |
|
and
makes us tolerate the difficulties we have |
| Than
fly to others that we know not of? |
90 |
instead
of flying to others we know nothing |
| Thus
conscience does make cowards of us all; |
|
about?
Our knowledge of this uncertainty makes |
| And
thus the native hue of resolution |
|
us
all cowards, and the thought of death grows |
| Is
sicklied o’er with the pale cast of thought, |
|
paler
(less appealing) with thought. |
| And
enterprises of great pitch and moment |
|
And
endeavors of great importance lose their |
| With
this regard their currents turn awry, |
95 |
appeal
if thought of too much; doubts arise |
| And
lose the name of action.-- Soft you now! |
|
and
the desire to take action is lost. But wait! |
| The
fair Ophelia! Nymph, in thy orisons |
|
The
fair Ophelia! Nymph, in your prayers |
| Be
all my sins remember’d. |
|
may
my sins be remembered‡. |
