Here is the original:
HAMLET: 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,
Th' oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely
The pangs of despised love, the law's delay,
The insolence of office, and the spurns
That patient merit of th' unworthy takes,
When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare bodkin? Who would fardels bear,
To grunt and sweat under a weary life,
But that the dread of something after death,
The undiscovered country, from whose bourn
No traveller returns, puzzles the will,
And makes us rather bear those ills we have
Than fly to others that 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 enterprise of great pitch 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.
Now we run it through quillbot.com, and get this:
HAMLET: To be, or not to be—that is the question: Whether it is nobler in the spirit to bear the slings and arrows of outrageous fate, or to raise arms against a sea of sorrows and by opposing them put an end to them.
To die, to sleep—no longer—and by sleeping, to claim that we have put an end to the anguish and the thousand natural shocks that flesh is heir to.
It's a happy ending that should be longed for.
To die, to slumber—to sleep—perchance to dream: ay, there's the rub, since what dreams may come in that sleep of death.
Must give us pause after we've drifted off this mortal coil.
There's the respect that causes such a lengthy life's catastrophe.
Who could withstand the whims and scorns of time, after all?
The oppressor is incorrect, and the proud man is contumely.
The agony of resentful love, the law's inaction
When he himself might manufacture his quietus With a naked bodkin, the insolence of office, and the spurns That patient merit of the unworthy takes?
Who would fardels endure, to grunt and sweat under a dreary existence, if not for the fear of something after death, the unknown place, from whose bourn they could return?
No traveller returns, perplexes the will, and makes us prefer endure our own afflictions than go to unknown lands?
Thus guilt makes us all cowards, and thus the original colour of determination is sicklied o'er with the wan cast of thinking, and endeavor of vast pitch and importance is suffocated.
Their currents go astray in this respect, and activity loses its name.
— Soften up now, lovely Ophelia! —
In thy origins, Nymph
Please remember all of my misdeeds.
