To love a narcissist, or to love yourself: that is the question:
Whether it’s 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 love yourself;
and by loving ourselves to say we end
The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to, it’s a consummation
Devoutly to be wish’d. To love yourself;
perchance to unknown future: ay, there’s the rub;
For what future may come
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,
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 cowards of us all;
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied over with the pale cast of thought,
And enterprises of great pith and moment
With this regard their currents turn awry,
And lose the name of action.

To love a narcissist, or to love yourself: that is simply the question
for you to answer