|
|
| (не показано 2 проміжні версії 2 учасників) |
| Рядок 1: |
Рядок 1: |
| − | 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 dispriz'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 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.
| + | |
