“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,”