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To be, not to: that is question: Whether nobler in mind to the
slings, arrows of fortune, or take arms a sea troubles and
opposing end? To die: sleep; No; and by sleep to we end
heart-ache and thousand natural That flesh heir to, a
consummation to be. To die, sleep; To perchance dream: ay, the
rub, in that of death dreams may when we shuffled off mortal
coil, give us: there’s the that makes of so life; For who bear
the and scorns time, The oppressor’s, the proud contumely, The
of despised, the law’s, the insolence office and the that
patient of the takes when himself might quietus make a bare?
who would bear, To and sweat a weary, but that dread of after
death, undiscover’d country whose bourn traveller returns the
will, makes us bear those we have fly to that we not of?
Conscience does cowards of all; And the native of resolution
sicklied o’er, the pale of thought, enterprises of pith and
moment this regard currents turn and lose name of. –Soft you!
The fair nymph! In orisons be my sins.