TheEarl
Occasional visitor
- Joined
- Apr 1, 2002
- Posts
- 9,808
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 agains ta sea of trouble and in opposing end them.
To die, to sleep, no more
and by a sleep to say we end the heartache and the thousand natural shocks that flesh is heir to.
To die, to sleep, to sleep, perchance to dream - aye, 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 out of so long life.
For who would bear the whips and scorns of time?
The proud man's wrong, the oppressor's contumely
The pangs of desprized love, the law's delay,
The insolence of office and the pans that the 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 for that fear of somethin after death - that undiscovered country from whose bourn no travellerreturns.
Puzzles the will and makes us rather bear those ills that we have than fly to others that we know not of.
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all,
And the native hue of resolution is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought
And enterprises of great pitch and moment, in this regard their currents turn awry
And lose the name of action.
Soft you now. The fair Ophelia. Nymph, in thy orisons be all my sins remembered.
Quite possibly the best piece of writing ever written and I can now do it off by heart and do quite a passable bit of acting with it.
Do what you will with the thread - no real point to it.
The Earl
That is the question.
Whether tis nobler in the mind to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune.
Or to take arms agains ta sea of trouble and in opposing end them.
To die, to sleep, no more
and by a sleep to say we end the heartache and the thousand natural shocks that flesh is heir to.
To die, to sleep, to sleep, perchance to dream - aye, 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 out of so long life.
For who would bear the whips and scorns of time?
The proud man's wrong, the oppressor's contumely
The pangs of desprized love, the law's delay,
The insolence of office and the pans that the 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 for that fear of somethin after death - that undiscovered country from whose bourn no travellerreturns.
Puzzles the will and makes us rather bear those ills that we have than fly to others that we know not of.
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all,
And the native hue of resolution is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought
And enterprises of great pitch and moment, in this regard their currents turn awry
And lose the name of action.
Soft you now. The fair Ophelia. Nymph, in thy orisons be all my sins remembered.
Quite possibly the best piece of writing ever written and I can now do it off by heart and do quite a passable bit of acting with it.
Do what you will with the thread - no real point to it.
The Earl
don't mess up on her 
