Writing > Poetry

What is the question?


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 agaisnt a sea of troubles,
and by opposing end them. To die, to sleep,
no more. And by sleep we mean to end the
heartace and the thousand natural shocks
that flesh is heir to. 'Tis a connsumation
devoutley to be wished. To die, to sleep,
to sleep perchance to deam. Aye, there's
the rub. for in that sleep of death what
deams may come, when we have shuffled
off this mortal coil, must give us pause.

( as best I can remember it hope it's accurate )

(Putting out a request that someone hunt down
 the poem "Annabell lee" and post it. Not sure
if that's spelled right though.)

You need to finish the soliloquy itself - the best part of it occurs when he contemplates how man may make his own peace with a dagger.

feel free to post it because I don't remember more than the part I posted. My favorite and about thwe onyl part I remember of 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 arms against a sea of troubles,
And by opposing end them: to dye, to sleep
No more; and by a sleep, to say we end
The heartache, and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir too? 'Tis a consummation
Devoutly 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 oppressors wrong, the poor mans 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 undiscovered country, from whose borne
No traveler 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,
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o'er, with the pale cast of thought,
And enterprises of great pith and moment,
With this regard their currants turn away,
And lose the name of action.


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