E para finalizar por hoje, antes de me dirigir para a confusão que é o trânsito nesta capital, onde várias tentativas de homicídio foram já cometidas contra este que vos escreve, mais concretamente só ontem foram 28, o melhor de Shakespear.

To be, or not to be--that is the question: whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune or to take arms against a sea of troubles, and, by opposing, end them. To die, to sleep...no more! And by a sleep, to say we end the heartache and the thousand natural shocks that flesh is heir to--'tis a consummation devoutly to be wished. 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 the patient merit from the unworthy, when he himself might his quietus make with a bare bodkin? Who would bear these burdens, to grunt and sweat under a weary life, but that the dread of something after death, the undiscovered country from whose borders no traveler returns, puzzles the will and makes us rather bear those ills we have than fly to others we know not of? Thus conscience does make cowards of us all, and thus the native hue of resolution is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought, and enterprises of great pith and moment with this regard their currents turn awry, and lose the name of action. Soft you, now, the fair Ophelia!--Nymph, in thy orisons be all my sins remembered.

Texto fantástico, pelo menos para mim, e eu é que interesso.