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Original text in yellow, anagram in pink.

Hamlet, III, i, 56-90

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,
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,
And by opposing end them? To die: to sleep;
No more; and by a sleep to say we end
The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to, 'tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish'd. 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: there's the respect
That makes calamity of so long life;
For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
The oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely,
The pangs of despised love, the law's delay,
The insolence of office and the spurns
That patient merit of the unworthy takes,
When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare bodkin? Who would fardels bear,
To grunt and sweat under a weary life,
But that the dread of something after death,
The undiscover'd country from whose bourn
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;
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought,
And enterprises of great pitch and moment
With this regard their currents turn awry,
And lose the name of action.--Soft you now!
The fair Ophelia! Nymph, in thy orisons
Be all my sins remember'd.

Life, or death?
Hop, fetch profoundness;
It is the eternal human dilemma.
Whether the stormy, thunderstruck sea of life
Is worth all the trauma we endure.
So shall we kill ourselves?
Or continue on as we do each day?
Oh, I say life is worth it!
Henceforth, I say we fend;
Take the route Hamlet did not.
Every day there is often something new,
Something zesty, pomp to be discovered!
O God, tempt, help us to find meaning!
Help us not wallow off in the same untransformed sorrow
As Hamlet, that defected Danish prince!
Oh, that tragic suicide
Is what ends off, strengthens, frosts, the play bearing his name.
Had he not done the deed
Ho! A great life may have arose off before him.
And so must we think about, comprehend
What may come dare we choose
The path of life; togetherness.
Oh, but what if Hamlet, our forerunner was right?
What if this preposterous life is worthless
And theft, an unscrupulous waste of time gone?
Poo, maybe we should all do
What that unsuppressed prince did!
And maybe we'd be all the wiser
For having taken our own spent, pocketed lives,
Struck ourselves off in the hearts.
Oh, mortals none cannot be brought back to life.
And thus is the most dire decision
That ever was.
This solution to the crookedest problem
Be most froze, unblatant.
Those that search afterthoughts may unearth not or prompts not
Any true clarity or truthfulness.
A quandary that stays problem,
The answer is as always unclear;
And so we still ask the question:
"To be, or not to be?"

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Updated: May 10, 2016


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