Hamlet: 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 up 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
	devoutly to be wished. To die, to sleep -
	To sleep - perchance to dream: ay, there's a 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 the calamity of so long life:
	For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
	Th' oppressors wrong, the proud mans contumely,
	the pangs of despised love, the laws delay,
	the insolence of office, and the spurns
	that patient merit of th' 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 dread of something after death,
	the undiscovered country, from whose bourn
	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 of resolution
	is sickled o'er with the pale cast of thought,
	and enterprises of great pitch and moment,
	with this regard their currents turn awry,
	and lose the name of action. - Soft you now,
	The fair Ophelia! - Nymph, in thy orisons
	be all my sins remembered