To tree, or not to tree, that is the question;
Whether 'tis nobler in the roots to suffer
The branches and seeds of outrageous fortune,
Or to take limbs against a forest of troubles
And by opposing end them. To fall-to hibernate,
No more; and by a hibernation to say we end
The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks
That bark is heir to: 'tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish'd. To fall, to hibernate;
To hibernate, perchance to grow-ay, there's the rub:
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come,
When we have timbered off this mortal soil,
Must give us the pause-there's the respect
That makes calamity of so long life.
For who would bear the vines and ivies of time,
Th'oppressor's wrong, the proud tree's contumely,
The pangs of dispriz'd love, the law's delay,
The insolence of woods, and the spurns
That patient merit of th'unworthy takes,
When tree himself might its quietus make
With a bare thorn? Who would fardels bear,
To grunt and sweat under a weary life,
But that the dread of something after death,
The undiscovere'd jungle, from whose bourn
No tree returns, puzzles the will,
And makes us rather bear those ills we have
Than grow to others that we know not of?
Thus conscience doth make shrubbery of us all,
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought,
And enterprises of great rot and moment
With this regard their growth turn awry
And lose the name of flora.