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