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ãããåæ¢çå¿ãï¼ WILLIAM WALLACEï¼"Fight, and you may die. Run, and you'll live at least a while. And dying in your beds many years from now. Would you be willing to trade? All the days from this day to that, for one chance, just one chance, to come back here and tell our enemies that they may take our lives, but they'll never take our Freedom! Freedomââ" å¨å»åè±å£«ï¼"æ¯åï¼å¦æææï¼å¯è½ä¼æ»ãå¦æéè·ï¼è³å°è¿è½æ´»ãå¹´å¤ä¸å¹´ï¼ç´å°å¯¿ç»æ£å¯ãä½ ä»¬ï¼æ¿ä¸æ¿æç¨è¿ä¹å¤èæ´»çæ¥åå»æ¢ä¸ä¸ªæºä¼ï¼å°±ä¸ä¸ªæºä¼ï¼é£å°±æ¯åæ¥ï¼åè¯æ人ï¼ä»ä»¬ä¹è®¸è½å¤ºèµ°æ们ççå½ï¼ä½æ¯ï¼ä»ä»¬æ°¸è¿å¤ºä¸èµ°æ们çèªç±ï¼" "æ们çèªç±ï¼ï¼
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ããTo be, or not to be- that is the question
ããæ±ææææ¯ï¼çåè¿æ¯æ¯çï¼è¿æ¯ä¸ä¸ªé®é¢ï¼
ããæ¤æ®µçå ¨æå¦ä¸ï¼
ããHamlet:To be, or not to be- that is the question:
ããWhether it's nobler in the mind to suffer
ããThe slings and arrows of outrageous fortune
ããOr to take arms against a sea of troubles,
ããAnd by opposing end them. To die- to sleep-
ããNo more; and by a sleep to say we end
ããThe heartache, and the thousand natural shocks
ããThat flesh is heir to. 'Tis a consummation
ããDevoutly to be wish'd. To die- to sleep.
ããTo sleep- perchance to dream: ay, there's the rub!
ããFor in that sleep of death what dreams may come
ããWhen we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
ããMust give us pause. There's the respect
ããThat makes calamity of so long life.
ããFor who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
ããTh' oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely,
ããThe pangs of despis'd love, the law's delay,
ããThe insolence of office, and the spurns
ããThat patient merit of th' unworthy takes,
ããWhen he himself might his quietus make
ããWith a bare bodkin? Who would these fardels bear,
ããTo grunt and sweat under a weary life,
ããBut that the dread of something after death-
ããThe undiscover'd country, from whose bourn
ããNo traveller returns- puzzles the will,
ããAnd makes us rather bear those ills we have
ããThan fly to others that we know not of?
ããThus conscience does make cowards of us all,
ããAnd thus the native hue of resolution
ããIs sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought,
ããAnd enterprises of great pith and moment
ããWith this regard their currents turn awry
ããAnd lose the name of action.
ããå: {èªè¨èªè¯}
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ããæ¯å¦åºé»é»çå¿ååå·å½è¿ä¹æ æ æå»,
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ããTo be, or not to be- that is the question
ããæ±ææææ¯ï¼çåè¿æ¯æ¯çï¼è¿æ¯ä¸ä¸ªé®é¢ï¼
ããæ¤æ®µçå ¨æå¦ä¸ï¼
ããHamlet:To be, or not to be- that is the question:
ããWhether it's nobler in the mind to suffer
ããThe slings and arrows of outrageous fortune
ããOr to take arms against a sea of troubles,
ããAnd by opposing end them. To die- to sleep-
ããNo more; and by a sleep to say we end
ããThe heartache, and the thousand natural shocks
ããThat flesh is heir to. 'Tis a consummation
ããDevoutly to be wish'd. To die- to sleep.
ããTo sleep- perchance to dream: ay, there's the rub!
ããFor in that sleep of death what dreams may come
ããWhen we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
ããMust give us pause. There's the respect
ããThat makes calamity of so long life.
ããFor who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
ããTh' oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely,
ããThe pangs of despis'd love, the law's delay,
ããThe insolence of office, and the spurns
ããThat patient merit of th' unworthy takes,
ããWhen he himself might his quietus make
ããWith a bare bodkin? Who would these fardels bear,
ããTo grunt and sweat under a weary life,
ããBut that the dread of something after death-
ããThe undiscover'd country, from whose bourn
ããNo traveller returns- puzzles the will,
ããAnd makes us rather bear those ills we have
ããThan fly to others that we know not of?
ããThus conscience does make cowards of us all,
ããAnd thus the native hue of resolution
ããIs sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought,
ããAnd enterprises of great pith and moment
ããWith this regard their currents turn awry
ããAnd lose the name of action.
ããå: {èªè¨èªè¯}
ããçåææ¯ç, è¿æ¯ä¸ªé®é¢:
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