Seal on hirm That makes calamity of so long life. Mis teeb õnnetuse sellest pikast elust For who would bear the whips and scorns of Kuna kes taluks aja piitsutusi ja põlgust, time, Th' oppressor's wrong, the proud man's Rõhuja väära, uhke solvamist contumely The pangs of despised love, the law's delay, Äratõugatud armastuse valupisteid, seaduse viivitust The insolence of office, and the spurns Ametniku jultumust, ja halvakspanu, That patient merit of th' unworthy takes, Mida kannatab vääritu kannatlik väärtus, When he himself might his quietus make Kui ta ise võib ennast lõpetada With a bare bodkin? Who would fardels bear, Vaid pistodaga ? kes kannataks koormaid, To grunt and sweat under a weary life, Pahuralt kurdaks ja higistaks tüütava elu all
Margaret Dashwood - The thirteen-year-old, good-humored youngest daughter of Mr. and Mrs. Henry Dashwood, Margaret shares her sister Marianne's romantic tendencies. Marianne Dashwood - The seventeen-year-old second daughter of Mr. and Mrs. Henry Dashwood. Marianne's spontaneity, excessive sensibility, and romantic idealism lead her to fall in love with the debaucherous John Willoughby, though he painfully spurns her, causing her to finally recognize her misjudgment of him. After this turn of heart, she ultimately marries her long-standing admirer, Colonel Brandon. Mrs. Ferrars - The wealthy, manipulative mother of Edward and Robert who disinherits her first son when he refuses to marry a rich heiress. Edward Ferrars - The sensible and friendly older brother of Fanny Dashwood and Robert Ferrars. Edward develops a close
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 undiscover'd country from whose bourn No traveller 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
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