As Bill (of the Shakespeare fame) in his days would have said:
To be, or not to be, that is the Question:
Whether ‘tis Nobler in the minde to suffer
The Slings and Arrowes of outragious Fortune
Or to take Armes against a Sea of troubles,
And by opposing end them: to dye, to sleepe
No more; and by a sleepe, to say we end
The Heart-ake, and the thousand Naturall shockes
That Flesh is heyre too? ‘Tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish’d. To dye to sleepe,
To sleepe, perchance to Dream; I, there’s the rvb,
For tn that sleepe of death, what dreames may come,
When we have shuffel’d off this mortal coile,
Must give vs pawse. There’s the respect
That makes Calamity of so long life:
For who would beare the Whips and Scornes of time,
The Oppressors wrong, the poore mans Contumely,
The pangs of dispriz’d Loue, the Lawes delay,
The insolence of Office, and the Spurnes
That patient merit of the unworthy takes,
When he himselfe might his Quietus make
With a bare Bodkin? Who would these Fardles beare
To grunt and sweat under a weary life,
But that the dread of something after death,
The undiscouered Countrey, from whose Borne
No Traveller returnes, Puzels the will,
And makes vs rather beare those illes we haue,
Then flye to others that we know not of.
Thus Conscience does make Cowards of vs all,
And thus the Native hew of Resolution
Is sicklied o’re, with the pale cast of Thought,
And enterprizes of great pith and moment,
With this regard their Currants turne away
And loose the name of Action.
Then, in modern times, the olde Enlishe became:
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 them? To die; to sleep;No More: and, by a sleep to say an 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 shuddled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause. There's the respect
That makes calamity of so long life;
For who could bear the whips and scorns of time,
The 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 the unworthy lakes,
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,
That undiscover'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 pale cast of thought,
And enterprises of great pith and moment
With this regard their currents turn awry,
And lose the name of action.
Of course, in today’s times, when ‘who has the time?’ this famous soliloquy would become in the sms 4mt sumthng like ths::
Whthr ts nblr in the mnd 2 sffr
The slngs & ROs of outrajus 4tun,
& by oppsng Nd thM? 2 di: 2 zzz:
No mre; & by a zzz 2 sy V Nd
Th@ flsh is air 2? ts a cnsmmasun
Dwowtly 2 B wshd. 2 di: 2 zzz,
2 zzz: prchnce 2 drm: ay, thrs the rb,
4 in tht zzz of N, wot drms may cum,
Wen V hav shffld of this mrt ,
Nst giv us paws. Thrs th rspkt
Tht mks Clmty of so lng lfe:
4 hu wud the whps & scrns of
,
Th opprssrs rong; th prd mn’s cntmly,
Th pngs of dsprzd’d luv, the ‘s Dly,
Th inslns of ofis, & th spms
Tht ptnt mrt of th unmrthy tax,
Wen he hmslf mite hs qYtus mk
Wth a bodkin? Hu wud thse fRdl
2 grnt & swet unda a weRy lfe,
Br tht th dred of smthng aftr N,
Th undscvrd cntry frm hus born
No trvllr rtrns, pzzls th wll,
Thn fly 2 othrs tht V no not of
Is sckld , wth th
cst of thot,
Wth ths rgrd thr AC/DC trn a-ry,
& lse th nm of axun.