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.

  ...

  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.