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,  

Th'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 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 the dread of something after death,  

The undiscovere'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 doth 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.  

.....  

Episode: https://robertwalker.blog/pod8