Why are you on my brain wave all the right (I was talking about dying my hair today). As well, I know lots of that soliloquey. To be or not to be, that is the question. Weither tis nobler in the mind to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous forture or to take arms against a see of troubles and by opposing end them. To die, to sleep not more and by a sleep to say that we end the thousand natural shocks that flesh is heir to. Tis a consumation devotely to be wished. To die to sleep, to sleep perchance to dream. Ai, 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. For who would bare 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 undiscovered 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?
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To be or not to be, that is the question. Weither tis nobler in the mind to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous forture or to take arms against a see of troubles and by opposing end them. To die, to sleep not more and by a sleep to say that we end the thousand natural shocks that flesh is heir to. Tis a consumation devotely to be wished. To die to sleep, to sleep perchance to dream. Ai, 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. For who would bare the whips and scorns of time...
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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 undiscovered 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?
whee for Shakespear-y-ness.
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