To be or not to be is probably the best-known line from all drama or literature.
Certainly, if anyone is asked to quote a line of Shakespeare this is the one that first comes to mind for most people.
/ Or that the Everlasting had not fix'd / His canon 'gainst self-slaughter! He questions the macrocosm of his death and thinks for a moment that it may be like eternal rest, which first seems to be acceptable until he reflects on what will happen to him when he enters into deep sleep.
Just when his "sleep" suffice begins to charm him, he stops short and marvels on, "To sleep: perchance to dream:-ay there's the rub; / For in that sleep of death what dreams may come" (III.i.68-69).
In the first playact, Hamlet anathematizes God for making suicide an immoral alternative. With this, it is clear that Hamlet is debating over the gains versus the losses of ending his own life, but also rationalizes that suicide is a crime in God's and the Church's eyes, and this could thus make his afterlife more forged than his present state of affairs.
He states, "that this too solid flesh would melt, / Thaw, and resolve itself into a dew! When Hamlet expresses the ailed question, "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" (III.i.59-61), there is trivial uncertainty that he is supposing of death, he is still left without an answer of whether the "catapults and arrows of horrid fate" can be tolerated since life after death is so uncertain.
If you get the judgment call wrong, there's no way back.
The whole speech is tinged with the Christian prohibition of suicide, although it isn't mentioned explicitly.
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 That patient merit of the 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 undiscover'd 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? and the fear of the uncertainty of death and of possible damnation of suicide.