No more. And for a dame to say, she’ll not thus end
The day, and all the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to—it is a consummation
Devoutly to be wish’d. To skip—to whirl—
To reel; perchance to fall: ay! there’s the rub;
For in that fall what sad mishaps may come,
If not to shuffle off her mortal coil,
Must give her pause. Then to reflect—
Whether a dance is necessary to her life
Why should she bear the wheels and turns of time