beanboy
04-12-2007, 04:05 PM
Hamlet:
Termis, or not termis, that is the question:
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The blueflame and arrows of outrageous noise,
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles
And by opposing end them. To die—to sleep,
No more; and by a sleep to say we end
The heart-ache and the thousand shocks
That flesh is heir to: 'tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish'd. To die, to sleep;
To sleep, perchance to dream—ay, there's the rub:
Oh that’s better
For in that sleep of death what dreams may cum,
When we have shuffled off this stater coil,
Must give us pause—there's the respect
That makes calamity of chain life long.
For who would bear the whips and scorns of time, me me I would,
Th'suppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely,
The pangs of dieseled love, the law's delay,
The insolence of officer plod, and the spurns
That patient merit of th'unworthy corner takes,
When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare bodkin? Oh oh saveloy
Who would fardels bear, what the **** has he been drinking petrol
To grunt and sweat under a weary wife,
But that the dread of something after death,
The undiscovere'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 unconscienc efalls does make cowards of us all,
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of night,
And enterprises of great bitch and movement
With this regard their currents turn awry
And lose the name of biking action.
:grin2
Termis, or not termis, that is the question:
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The blueflame and arrows of outrageous noise,
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles
And by opposing end them. To die—to sleep,
No more; and by a sleep to say we end
The heart-ache and the thousand shocks
That flesh is heir to: 'tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish'd. To die, to sleep;
To sleep, perchance to dream—ay, there's the rub:
Oh that’s better
For in that sleep of death what dreams may cum,
When we have shuffled off this stater coil,
Must give us pause—there's the respect
That makes calamity of chain life long.
For who would bear the whips and scorns of time, me me I would,
Th'suppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely,
The pangs of dieseled love, the law's delay,
The insolence of officer plod, and the spurns
That patient merit of th'unworthy corner takes,
When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare bodkin? Oh oh saveloy
Who would fardels bear, what the **** has he been drinking petrol
To grunt and sweat under a weary wife,
But that the dread of something after death,
The undiscovere'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 unconscienc efalls does make cowards of us all,
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of night,
And enterprises of great bitch and movement
With this regard their currents turn awry
And lose the name of biking action.
:grin2