Hamlet's endurance has reached the breaking point. His father has been murdered. His mother, whom he loves dearly, has married her dead husband's brother. Moreover his sweetheart, Ophelia, has been acting very strangely. He senses that she does not love him anymore
Now, he is all alone. The world that he had knew is shattered. His black mood of despair is deepened by his inability to act, to do something
To change the situation. Now he ponders whenever to continue living, or to take his own life
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 undiscovered country from whose bourn
No traveler 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