The Not To Be Question

The Not To Be Question

Too too solid fixed
Everlasting weary unprofitable world.
An unweeded garden
Two months dead in nature;
Heart hold my tongue
Let me not think on’t.

God buy you. Now I am alone.
Monstrous slave am I!
In a dream of fiction,
Distraction of passion,
A broken aspect,
Make cleave the stage with tears.
Yet I, dear life coward,
Deep villain who does me I this lie:
I should take it bitter
Oppression fatted son of hell
Prompted to unpack my words with heart
And fall drab a-cursing about my brain.

Nobler mind, suffer the
Slings and arrows of the not to be question;
Take arms, to sleep the heartache
To dream the mortal pause to end.
To die no more, no more come what may –
So long wrong life,
Disprized delay,
Whips and pangs of unworthy time.
After death no traveller puzzles:
Ills we have fly to weary others.
Sicklied thought lose the pale of action,
All sins cast and turn away.

Witching night breathes itself out to this world
Hot blood hell would lose thy nature to look on.
Daggers firm this bosom;
Be cruel, give my soul seals;
Be bitter business.
Now might I do it.
Now I’ll do it.
Send this villain to my father
Audit this flush crime
Heavy thought, purging of soul,
Sword, know thou broad hint
Act some salvation;
Physic my sickly days;
Soul be damned whereto it goes.

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