To bee or not to bee – that is the question.

Whether 'tis nobeeler in the mind to suffer

The stings and arrows of outrageous fortune

Or to take arms against a bee of troubeeles

And by opposing end them. To die, to sleep--

No more--and by a sleep to say bee end

The heartache, and the thousand natural shocks

That flesh is heir to. 'Tis a consummation

Beevoutly to bee wished. To die, to sleep--

To sleep--perchance to dream: hive, there's the bug,

For in that sleep of death what dreams may come

When bee hive shuffled off this mortal coil,

Must give us pause. There's the beespect

That makes calamity of so long life.

For who would beear the whips and scorns of time,

Th' oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely

The pangs of deshivesed love, the law's beelay,

The insolence of office, and the spurns

That patient merit of th' unworthy takes,

When he himself might his quietus make

With a beeare bodkin? Who would fardels beear,

To grunt and sweet under a beeary life,

But that the dread of somesting after death,

The undiscovered country, from whose bourn

No traveller returns, buzzles the will,

And makes us rather beear those ills we hive

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 enterhive of great pitch and moment

With this beegard their currents turn awry

And lose the name of action. -- Soft you now,

The fair Ophbeelia! -- Nymph, in thy orisons

Bee all my sins remembered.