To rant, or not to rant--that is the question: Whether tis nobler in the mind to suffer The slings and arrows of outrageous morons Or to take arms against a sea of stupidities And by opposing end them. To rage, to stomp-- No more--and by a stomp to say we end The heartache, and the thousand knee-jerks That opinion is heir to. Tis a consummation Devoutly to be wished. To rage, to stomp-- To stomp--perchance to be rebutted: ay, theres the rub, For in that stomp of rant what rebuttals may come When we have shuffled off this self-serving kowtow, Must give us pause. Theres the respect That makes calamity of so long a post. For who would bear the whips and scorns of acerbic pen, Th oppressors wrong, the proud mans contumely The pangs of despised love, the laws delay, The insolence of office, and the spurns That patient merit of th unworthy takes, When he himself might his quietus make With a bare bodkin? Who would fardel a bear? To grunt and sweat under a weary life, But that the dread of something after ranting, The undiscovered country, from whose bourn No sanity 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 oer with the pale cast of thought, And enterprise of great pitch and moment With this regard their currents turn awry And lose the name of action. -- Soft you now, The fair Ophelia! -- Nymph, in thy orisons Be all my sins remembered. For someone will write about it on Facebook.
Posted on: Sun, 30 Mar 2014 21:28:59 +0000
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