No more; and by a sleep to say we end

　　The heartache, 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 despis'd 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 these 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