To be, or not to be, that is the question:
Whether ‘tis Nobler in the mind to suffer
The Spears and Mallets of outrageous Fat Men,
Or to lay down before the cozy bonfire,
And by avoiding end them: to rage, to quit
For good; and by a quit, to say we end
The Heart-ache, and the thousand Natural shocks
Of Fat Man’s butt slam? ‘Tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wished. To rage, to quit,
To quit, perchance to Sleep; Aye, there’s the rub,
For in that bliss of sleep, what madness comes,
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause. There’s the respect
That makes Calamity of cursed undeath:
For who would bear the Pikes and Swords of Knights,
The Giants’ Halberds, the Fat Man’s hammer strokes,
The thrusts of Ornstein’s Spear, the swift retreat,
The glimmering of new hope, and the Doom
That newborn dream with such swiftness meets,
When he himself might his comfort make
With idle Despair? Who would Armor bear,
To grunt and sweat under a weary helm,
But that the dread of madness after death,
The assuréd Hollowing, 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 Heroes of us all,
And thus the Native hue of Resolution
Is re-emboldened, with the rich stain of Fear,
And final battles of great pitch and moment,
With this regard their Futures turn awry,
And lose the promise of Defeat. Soft you now,
Fat Smough and Swift Ornstein? Foes, in thy Trouncings
Be all my deaths made worthy.