William Shakespeare

como ser rapido

To be swift, or not to be swift, that is the question: Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to endure The dawdling pace of time's relentless strive Or to take arms against a sea of languor, And by opposing, outrun it. To move, to act, No more; and by a move, to say we end Procrastination and the thousand natural shocks That immobility is heir to: 'tis a consummation Devoutly to be wished. To act, to move; To move, perchance to race: ay, there's the rub; For in that movement of swift pace what knocks may come When we have shuffled off this mental coil, Must give us pause. There's the respect That makes versatility of so long life; For who would bear the challenges and torments of life, The oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely, The pangs of missed opportunity, the continuous delay Of the unworthy taking flight, the insolence of time's scurry, When he himself might his movement make With a mere step? Who would specimens bear, To grunt and sweat under a weary life, But that the dread of something after speed, The undiscovered nook whence no one returns, Puzzles the will and makes us rather bear Those ills we have than fly to others that we know not? Thus conscience does make deliberation of us all, And thus the native hue of rapidity Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought, And enterprises of great pitch and moment With this regard, their current turn awry, And lose the name of swiftness. - Soft you now! The fair Ophelia! Nymph, in thy orisons Be all my speeds remembered.