A Million Pardons To The Bard

To tell or not to tell, that is the question.
Whether ‘tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous Cupid,
Or to take arms against the sea of Love,
And by opposing, end it? To die, to sleep;
No more; and by a sleep to say we end
The heartache and the thousand natural longings
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 romantic coil,
Must give us pause.
The pangs of despised love.

A little hope is a dangerous thing; and a loss of hope leading to despair, even more.