Aye, there’s the rub, for after this final speech,
I wish those dreams may come,
When I have shuffled off this mimic toil,
That tell me I have merited your applause.
There’s the respect that makes the memory
Of your favours of so long life;
For who would strut, and rehearse long parts,
To groan and sweat under some worrying manager,
But that the dread of a bad benefit,
An empty theatre, from whose pit and boxes