Let me give you a nice present time: I bring you none other than Shakespeare! I bring you his Hamlet, the melancholy Prince of Denmark but breathing homonymous tragedy, written four centuries ago, but he has put on stage feelings and emotions universal and ubiquitous in all men. I bring you the apotheosis of the drama of this prince, betrayed and disappointed man, whose soul was soiled with blood from a crime that just did not deserve, a crime which is an offense to the "noble mind," as Ophelia calls him that she loved so much, that prince who, after that tragedy, he learned to hate with the same force with which he loved.
The passage is the famous monologue of 'To be or not be , one of the most famous songs of all world literature, performed by the same Hamlet in Act III. Technically, rather than a monologue, it is a soliloquy in which Hamlet is uncertain whether there is reason to live (be) or die (not be), whether it is more "noble" fight against the penis or indulge in them; is a soliloquy where he speaks of death as a sleep, a sleep that many times you want to escape from excessive pain, but a death do not have the courage to give of ourselves, perhaps with a "naked" dagger so simply because we are afraid of what we might find later, the penalties that may be even greater than those of which we complain about in life, a death which we fear the consequences, which are much more afraid as they are unknown. And because of this fear, the will to end it fades, it becomes pale under the weight of our thought and deliberation that is not reflected in concrete actions.
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To be or not, this is the dilemma:
Is it nobler to suffer in his own mind
stones and darts the adverse fate,
or instead take up arms against a sea of \u200b\u200btroubles
and put an end to their strength to fight? To die, to sleep.
nothing else, and by a sleep to say we end
the suffering of the heart, and a thousand insults natural
whose flesh is heir, and this is indeed a conclusion
devoutly to be desired. To die, to sleep;
sleeping, maybe dreaming. Alas, here is the obstacle;
because in that sleep of death, the dreams may come,
when we are freed from the tangle of this mortal coil,
should give us reason to hesitate: this is the scruple
that makes evil so durable:
For who would bear the whips and the derision of the century,
the wrongs of the oppressor, the outrages of the proud,
of suffering ' unrequited love, the law's delay,
the insolence of those in power, and offense
that patient merit from those who are unworthy,
when he himself could give peace
with a bare bodkin? Who would bear the weight
to groan and sweat under a life weak,
except that the dread of something after death
- that land whose boundaries unexplored by any traveler
Back - perplexes the will,
and makes us bear those ills we already have,
instead fly to others that we do not know nothing?
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all,
and so the original color of the decision
is made unhealthy by the pale hue of thought,
And enterprises of great height and large-scale
with this scruple divert their course via
And lose the name of action.
William Shakespeare, Hamlet, Act III, Scene I
But I believe that such a text, is a duty to offer it even in its original, because in poetry than in prose, that is the saying "translator is a traitor." In English it is quite another thing! Who was the lover of the British language, or simply the language of Shakespeare also recommended to read the original text, and maybe peek at the scene of the soliloquy from the film Hamlet directed by Kenneth Branagh in 1996, the versione cinematografica dell’ Amleto più bella che abbia mai visto.
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 disprized 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 undiscovered country from whose bourn
no traveller returns – puzzles the will,
and make 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. 
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