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"To die, to sleep; To sleep: perchance to dream: ay, 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:

For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,

The oppressor’s wrong, the proud man’s contumely,

The pangs of despised love,

When he himself might his quietus make

With a bare bodkin? Who would grunt and

sweat under a weary life,

But that the dread of something after death,

The undiscover’d country from whose boundary

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."

Hamlet, Act 3, Scene 1 (adapted)

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