"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 shuffled off this mortal coil, must give us pause:
For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
The oppressor’s wrong, the proud man’s contumely,
The pangs of despised love,
When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare bodkin? Who would grunt and
sweat under a weary life,
But that the dread of something after death,
The undiscover’d country from whose boundary
No traveller returns,
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