The question is ... Whether ‘tis nobler to suffer
Fate’s arrows and slings so outrageous?
Or to be, and take arms against troubling seas
And oppose them with action courageous?

To die, not to be; only sleep, possibly,
Ending shocks and heart-aches flesh is heir to.
All quiet past that portal where, no longer mortal,
- consummation we offer a prayer to.

To die, to sleep, perchance to dream; there’s the rub -
For death’s dreams may provoke hesitation.
And the puzzling dread of that something when you’re dead,
Discolors our strong resolution.

With dagger that’s naked we’d easily make it
To that land whence no traveller’s recovered;
But that puzzles our will, rather bear our known ills,
Than fly off to others undiscovered.

Explaining persistence of troubled existence,
For Time’s whips and scorns who would bear‘em?
The haughty, the oppressors, rejecting lovers –
The wrongs and the spurns they don’t spare’em.

Yet there’s puzzling dread of that thing when you’re dead,
And the pale cast of thought which can sicken.
Enterprise of great moment and pith turns awry,
And thus conscience makes all of us chicken.

The question lives on … When the chips are all down,
To take outrageous fate so much drearier?
Or to be, and take arms against troubling seas,
And oppose them with action superior?