suicide note
        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 heartache, 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 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,
        Th' oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely,
        The pangs of despis'd love, the law's delay,
        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 these fardels bear,
        To grunt and sweat under a weary life,
        But that the dread of something after death-
        The 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 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 pith and moment
        With this regard their currents turn awry
        And lose the name of action.- Soft you now!
        The fair Ophelia!- Nymph, in thy orisons
        Be all my sins rememb'red.

        William Shakespeare:  Hamlet III,i,56-89

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