To be, or not to be

"To be, or not to be" is the opening phrase of a speech given by Prince Hamlet in the so-called "nunnery scene" of William Shakespeare's play Hamlet, Act 3, Scene 1. In the speech, Hamlet contemplates death and suicide, weighing the pain and unfairness of life against the alternative, which might be worse. The opening line is one of the most widely known and quoted lines in modern English literature, and the speech has been referenced in many works of theatre, literature, and music. Hamlet is not alone as he speaks because Ophelia is on stage waiting for him to see her and Claudius and Polonius have concealed themselves to hear him. Even so, Hamlet seems to consider himself alone and there is no definite indication that the others hear him before he addresses Ophelia, so the speech is almost universally regarded as a soliloquy. This version preserves most of the First Folio text with updated spelling, punctuation, and five common emendations introduced from the Second ("Good") Quarto (italicised). 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 end them: to die, to sleep No more; and by a sleep, to say we end The heart-ache, and the thousand natural shocks That Flesh is heir to? 'Tis a consummation Devoutly to be wished. 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 of so long life: For who would bear the Whips and Scorns of time, The Oppressor's wrong, the proud man's Contumely, [F: poore] The pangs of despised Love, the Law’s delay, [F: dispriz’d] The insolence of Office, and the spurns That patient merit of th'unworthy takes, When he himself might his Quietus make With a bare Bodkin? Who would Fardels bear, [F: these Fardels] To grunt and sweat under a weary life, But that the dread of something after death, The undiscovered 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 does make cowards of us all, And thus the native hue of Resolution Is sicklied o'er, with the pale cast of Thought, And enterprises of great pitch and moment, [F: pith] With this regard their Currents turn awry, [F: away] And lose the name of Action.