Как хочется спать...

To die. To sleep. And in this sleep to say we end
That heartache, and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to. It is a consummation
Devout'ly to be wish'd. For who would farlels bear -
The operssor's wrong, the proud man's contumely,
The insolence of office and the spurns
That passianate merit of unworthy make
When he himself might his quietus make
With bare bodkin? To die, to sleep...