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The pangs of dispriz’d 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 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 remember’d
The pain of rejected love, the slow process of the law,
The arrogance of those in power, and the disrespect
That deserving people endure from the undeserving,
When they could end their suffering with a simple knife?
Who would carry burdens, endure the hardships
Of a tiresome life, if not for the fear of what comes after death,
The unknown realm from which no traveler returns?
It confuses the mind and causes us to tolerate the troubles we know,
Rather than escape to unknown troubles.
In this way, our conscience makes us cowards,
And our determination is weakened by overthinking,
Causing us to deviate from significant actions
And lose the opportunity for achievement. Hold on a moment!
Look, it's Ophelia! Nymph, in your prayers,
Remember all my sins.