To be or not to be, that is the question.
In sooth I know not why I am so sad.
Why, ‘tis good to be sad and say nothing
Griefs of mine own lie heavy in my breast
What’s done cannot be undone.
I am not prone to weeping
Yet again, methinks, some unborn sorrow, ripe in fortune’s womb, is coming towards me.
Alas, I rather hate myself for hateful deeds committed by myself.
In what vile part of this anatomy doth my name lodge?
I pray you, in your letters, when you shall these unlucky deeds relate, speak of me as I am.
It is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.
