(Made with help from Keith Envoldsen’s Gibberish Generator)
To die: to die: this doth pangs of us the question.
That question is rather; who would bear a thousand enterprises of the rub? ‘Tis nobler in the native scorns of outrageous fortune than in insolence to grunt perchance of troubles. To be with the resolution: whethers that makes calamity of us all; and, by oppressor’s wrong, the oppressor’s wrong, the undiscover’d country from whose bodkin? Might his quietus may come whips and love, there’s the unworthy take that makes us pause.
When we know not of time, the resolution is devoutly to dream.