_Pol._ Ophelia, walk you here. Gracious, so please you,[1035] We will bestow ourselves. [_To Ophelia_] Read on this book;[1036] That show of such an exercise may colour 45 Your loneliness. We are oft to blame in this,--[1037] 'Tis too much proved--that with devotion's visage And pious action we do sugar o'er[1038] The devil himself. _King._ [_Aside_] O, 'tis too true![1039] How smart a lash that speech doth give my conscience! 50 The harlot's cheek, beautied with plastering art, Is not more ugly to the thing that helps it Than is my deed to my most painted word: O heavy burthen! _Pol._ I hear him coming: let's withdraw, my lord.[1040] 55 [_Exeunt King and Polonius._ _Enter_ HAMLET.[1041] _Ham._ 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,[1042] Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,[1043] And by opposing end them? To die: to sleep;[1044][1045] 60 No more; and by a sleep to say we end[1045][1046] The heart-ache, and the thousand natural shocks That flesh is heir to, 'tis a consummation[1047] Devoutly to be wish'd. To die, to sleep;[1048] To sleep: perchance to dream: ay, there's the rub; 65 For in that sleep of death what dreams may come, When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,[1049] Must give us pause: there's the respect[1050] That makes calamity of so long life;[1050] For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,[1051] 70 The oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely,[1052] The pangs of despised love, the law's delay,[1053] The insolence of office, and the spurns That patient merit of the unworthy takes, When he himself might his quietus make[1054] 75 With a bare bodkin? who would fardels bear,[1055] To grunt and sweat under a weary life,[1056] But that the dread of something after death, The undiscover'd country from whose bourn[1057] No traveller returns, puzzles the will,[1058] 80 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,[1059] And thus the native hue of resolution[1060] Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought,[1061] 85 And enterprises of great pitch and moment[1062] With this regard their currents turn awry[1063] And lose the name of action. Soft you now![1064] The fair Ophelia! Nymph, in thy orisons[1065] Be all my sins remember'd. _Oph._ Good my lord,[1066] 90 How does your honour for this many a day? _Ham._ I humbly thank you: well, well, well.[1067]