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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,...

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