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To be or not to be, that is the question.

Whether tis nobler in the mind to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, or to take arms against a sea of troubles, and by opposing, end them? To die, to sleep; no more. And by a sleep to say we end the heartache, and the thousand natural shocks that flesh is heir to. Tis a consummation, devoutely to be wished. 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 the patient merit of the unworthy takes. When he himself might his quietus make with a bare bodkin? Who would these fardel's bear, to grunt and sweat under a weary life. But that the dread of something after death, the undiscovered country. From whose bourne no traveler returns, puzzles the will and makes us rather bear those ills we have than to fly to others we know not of. Thus conscience does make cowards of us all. And thus the native hue or resolution is sickled over with the pale cast of thought. And enterprises of great pith and moment, with this regard their currents turn away and lose the name of action. Soft you now! The fair Ophelia, nymph in thy orisons!

Be all my sins remembered.