Devoutly to be wish"d. 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 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 pangs 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 fardels bear,
To grunt and sweat under a weary life,
But that the dread of something after death,
The undiscover"d 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 does make cowards of us all;
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