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:
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