To be, or not to be: that is the question: Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer The slings and arrows of outrageous blowouts, Or to take arms against a sea of troubles, And by opposing end them? To tank: to rest; No more; and by a tank to say we end The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks That teams are 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 picks may come When we have given up on this hopeless season, Must give us pause: there's the respect; For who would bear the losses in overtime, The oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely, The pangs of despised love, the ref's bad calls, The insolence of Stern and the Spurs That patient merit of the unworthy takes, When he himself might the trophy take With a first rounder? who would fardels bear, To grunt and sweat under a weary season, But that the dread of something after wards, The undiscover'd country from whose bourn No player 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 game on purpose. - Soft you now! The fair Lottery! Pick, in thy orisons Be all my sins remember'd