That flesh is heir to, 'tis a consummation

　　Devoutly to be wish'd. To die, to sleep;

　　To sleep: perchance to dream: aye, 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 traveler returns, puzzles the will,

　　And makes us rather bear those ills we have

　　Than fly to others that we know not of?