IRC-Galleria

To die, to sleep; to sleep, a chance to dream.
Aye, there's the rub, 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 a life.

For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
the oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely,
the pangs of despised love, the law's delay,
the insolence of office that patient merit the 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 dread of something after death
the undiscover'd country from whose bourn no traveller returns.