to be or not to be

that is the the question!

aaaaaaahhhhhh but what is the question if its red stripe i would go with to be  

Whether tis nobler in the mind to suffer.....

Hmmmm what are we contemplating?

Inezmaria70 wrote:Whether tis nobler in the mind to suffer.....

The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune...

Caryll wrote:

Inezmaria70 wrote:Whether tis nobler in the mind to suffer.....

The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune...

Pray thank you Mrs C  

Or to take arms against a sea of troubles..........

I'm lost??

Inezmaria70 wrote: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.

I like a bit of Shakespeare!

The Buddha said just be   or not, whatever you fancy!

The hart-aka, and the thouland naturall fjocks
demonutly to be wifht to die to fleepe,

Here you go  :

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 wish'd. 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,
The pangs of despised love, the law's delay,
The insolence of office, and the spurns
That patient merit of the unworthy takes,
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,
The undiscover'd country from whose bourn
No traveler 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.

 

The Hamlet soliloquy.