To be, or not to be: that is the question:

Whether 'tis nobler in the processor to suffer

The lasers and missiles of outrageous fortune,

Or to take arms against a sea of Autobots,

And by opposing end them? To go offline: to go into stasis look;

No more; and by a stasis to say we end

The malfunction and the thousand natural shocks

That meta is heir to, 'tis a consummation

Devoutly to be wish'd. To go offline, to stasislock;

To repair: perchance to fight anew: ay, there's the rub;

For in that sleep of sparklessness what dreams may come

When we have shuffled off to join Vector Sigma,

Must give us pause: there's the respect

That makes calamity of so long operation;

For who would bear the null rays and laser burns of time,

The oppressor's wrong, the proud transformer's contumely,

The pangs of despised opportunity, the law's delay,

The insolence of command 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 lose power under a weary life,

But that the dread of something after loss of spark,

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?

Thus conscience does make Starscreams of us all;

And thus the native hue of resolution

Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of processing,

And enterprises of great pith and moment

With this regard their currents turn awry,

And lose the name of action. - Soft you now!

The fair Cybertron! Beckoning, in thy orisons

Be all my sins remember'd.