Відмінності між версіями «Категорія:Портфоліо студента/Структура»
Рядок 1: | Рядок 1: | ||
To be, or not to be, that is the question: | To be, or not to be, that is the question: | ||
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Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer | Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer | ||
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The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, | The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, | ||
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Or to take arms against a sea of troubles | Or to take arms against a sea of troubles | ||
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And by opposing end them. To die—to sleep, | And by opposing end them. To die—to sleep, | ||
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No more; and by a sleep to say we end | No more; and by a sleep to say we end | ||
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The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks | The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks | ||
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That flesh is heir to: 'tis a consummation | That flesh is heir to: 'tis a consummation | ||
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Devoutly to be wish'd. To die, to sleep; | Devoutly to be wish'd. To die, to sleep; | ||
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To sleep, perchance to dream—ay, there's the rub: | To sleep, perchance to dream—ay, there's the rub: | ||
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For in that sleep of death what dreams may come, | For in that sleep of death what dreams may come, | ||
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When we have shuffled off this mortal coil, | When we have shuffled off this mortal coil, | ||
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Must give us pause—there's the respect | Must give us pause—there's the respect | ||
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That makes calamity of so long life. | That makes calamity of so long life. | ||
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For who would bear the whips and scorns of time, | For who would bear the whips and scorns of time, | ||
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Th'oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely, | Th'oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely, | ||
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The pangs of dispriz'd love, the law's delay, | The pangs of dispriz'd love, the law's delay, | ||
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The insolence of office, and the spurns | The insolence of office, and the spurns | ||
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That patient merit of th'unworthy takes, | That patient merit of th'unworthy takes, | ||
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When he himself might his quietus make | When he himself might his quietus make | ||
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With a bare bodkin? Who would fardels bear, | With a bare bodkin? Who would fardels bear, | ||
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To grunt and sweat under a weary life, | To grunt and sweat under a weary life, | ||
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But that the dread of something after death, | But that the dread of something after death, | ||
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The undiscovere'd country, from whose bourn | The undiscovere'd country, from whose bourn | ||
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No traveller returns, puzzles the will, | No traveller returns, puzzles the will, | ||
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And makes us rather bear those ills we have | And makes us rather bear those ills we have | ||
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Than fly to others that we know not of? | Than fly to others that we know not of? | ||
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Thus conscience doth make cowards of us all, | Thus conscience doth make cowards of us all, | ||
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And thus the native hue of resolution | And thus the native hue of resolution | ||
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Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought, | Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought, | ||
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And enterprises of great pith and moment | And enterprises of great pith and moment | ||
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With this regard their currents turn awry | With this regard their currents turn awry | ||
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And lose the name of action. | And lose the name of action. |
Версія за 20:03, 9 вересня 2021
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.
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