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 heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to, ’tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish’d. To die, to sleep;
To sleep: perchance to dream: ay, 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 traveller 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 currents turn awry,
And lose the name of action.–Soft you now!
The fair Ophelia! Nymph, in thy orisons
Be all my sins remember’d.
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 heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to, ’tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish’d. To die, to sleep;
To sleep: perchance to dream: ay, 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 traveller 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 currents turn awry,
And lose the name of action.–Soft you now!
The fair Ophelia! Nymph, in thy orisons
Be all my sins remember’d.
.......
The question for Hamlet was whether to
continue to exist or not – whether it was more noble to suffer the slings and
arrows of an unbearable situation, or to declare war on the sea of troubles
that afflict one, and by opposing them, end them. To die. He pondered the
prospect. To sleep – as simple as that. And with that sleep we end the
heartaches and the thousand natural miseries that human beings have to endure.
It’s an end that we would all ardently hope for. To die. To sleep. Perhaps to
dream. Yes, that was the problem, because in that sleep of death the dreams we
might have when we have shed this mortal body must make us pause. That’s the
consideration that creates the calamity of such a long life. Because, who would
tolerate the whips and scorns of time; the tyrant’s offences against us; the
contempt of proud men; the pain of rejected love; the insolence of
officious authority; and the advantage that the worst people take of the best,
when one could just release oneself with a naked blade? Who would carry this
load, sweating and grunting under the burden of a weary life if it weren’t for
the dread of the after life – that unexplored country from whose border no
traveller returns? That’s the thing that confounds us and makes us put up with
those evils that we know rather than hurry to others that we don’t know about.
So thinking about it makes cowards of us all, and it follows that the first
impulse to end our life is obscured by reflecting on it. And great and
important plans are diluted to the point where we don’t do anything.
(Adapted from http://www.nosweatshakespeare.com/quotes/hamlet-to-be-or-not-to-be)
.......
I just want to sleep.
###
