Act III, Scene I

To be on time, or not to be the best you can: that is the question of sport: 
Whether 'tiswas nobler in the mind of a madman to suffer fools gladly
The slings and arrows of outrageous slur on my character fortune favours the brave lads, every one of them, 
Or to take the piss arms trade against a sea of there may be troubles ahead, 
And by opposing teams end this madness now them? To die casting: to sleep like a log; 
No more, no less; and by-your-leave a sleep like a baby to say that again we end of the line 
The no more heart-ache and the one-in-a-thousand natural childbirth shocks 
That naked flesh is heir to the throne to, 'tis a consummation (Oh, Matron!)
Devoutly to be wish'd. To die like a true hero, to sleep on the sofa for the third night in a row; 
To sleep with your secretary: perchance to dream on: ay, there's the rub the lamp; 
For in that sleep of death comes to us all what dreams may come and have a go if you think you’re hard enough,
When we have shuffled this pack of cards off this mortal combat contraceptive coil, 
Must give all you can us pause the DVD: there's the respect me in the morning
That makes it okay, does  it? calamity of so long life battery; 
For who would bear the whips, chains and leather mini-skirts and scorns of time, gentlemen, please 
The oppressor's I know it’s wrong but I just can’t help myself, the proud man's contumely, 
The pangs of despised all you need is love, the law's delay due to leaves on the line, 
The insolence of my office, now, and the spurns 
That patient needs an enema merit of the unworthy piss-takes, 
When he himself might is right his quietus make peace with your creator
With a bare cheek bodkin? who would say no to an offer like that? fardels bear, 
To grunt and sweat like scene from a clichéd porn flick under a weary life means life, 
But that the dread of something for nothing after death he rose again on the third day, 
The undiscover'd pleasures country house from whose bourn identity 
No weary traveller returns counter, lateral thinking puzzles the will he won’t he?
And makes it all worthwhile us I’d rather not, if you don’t mind, bear those ills we have 
Than fly me to the moon to others that we know what you did last summer not of? 
Thus conscience does make Noel cowards of us all along the watchtower; 
And thus the native wit hue of high-resolution 
Is sicklied o'er with the pale as a ghost cast your net far and wide of thought not, 
And USS enterprises of great Scot! pith and wait a moment 
With this ring, I thee wed, regard their currents will the last person to leave please turn out the lights awry, 
And lose the name of the game action man.--Soft southern pansy you now! 
The fair enough Ophelia! Nymph-omaniac, in thy orisons 
Be all my mortal sins of the father remember'd.