Okay, here goes. (I'm pretty sure it will be all wrong, but it's from memory, so hey.)
To be, or not to be, that is the question
Whether tis nobler in a 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 that sleep we say to end the heartache and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to
Tis a consummation devoutly to be wished
To die, to sleep
To sleep, perchance to dream
Aye, there's the rub
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come?
When we shuffle off this mortal coil must give us pause
For who would bear the whips and scorns of time
The oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely
The insolence of office, the pangs of despised love
And the spurns
Which patient merit of the unworthy take
When he himself would his quietus make
With a bare bodkin, who would fardels bear
to grunt and sweat under that of a weary life
But that the dread of something after death
That undiscovered country from whose borne
No traveller returns, puzzles the will
And makes us rather bear the ills we have
Than fly to others we know not of
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all
And the native hue of resolution is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of though
And enterprises of great pith and moment
With this regard their currents turn awry
And lose the name of action