LITMIR.BIZ

      TO wed, or not to wed? That is the question

      Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer

      The pangs and arrows of outrageous love

      Or to take arms against the powerful flame

      And by oppressing quench it.

      To wed – to marry —

      And by a marriage say we end

      The heartache and the thousand painful shocks

      Love makes us heir to – 'tis a consummation

      Devoutly to be wished! to wed – to marry —

      Perchance a scold! aye, there's the rub!

      For in that wedded life what ills may come

      When we have shuffled off our single state

      Must give us serious pause. There's the respect

      That makes us Bachelors a numerous race.

      For who would bear the dull unsocial hours

      Spent by unmarried men, cheered by no smile

      To sit like hermit at a lonely board

      In silence? Who would bear the cruel gibes

      With which the Bachelor is daily teased

      When he himself might end such heart-felt griefs

      By wedding some fair maid? Oh, who would live

      Yawning and staring sadly in the fire

      Till celibacy becomes a weary life

      But that the dread of something after wed-lock

      (That undiscovered state from whose strong chains

      No captive can get free) puzzles the will

      And makes us rather choose those ills we have

      Than fly to others which a wife may bring.

      Thus caution doth make Bachelors of us all,

      And thus our natural taste for matrimony

      Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought.

      And love adventures of great pith and moment

      With this regard their currents turn away

      And lose the name of Wedlock.

      TO draw, or not to draw, – that is the question: —

      Whether 'tis safer in the player to take

      The awful risk of skinning for a straight,

      Or, standing pat, to raise 'em all the limit

      And thus, by bluffing, get in. To draw, – to skin;

      No more – and by that skin to get a full,

      Or two pairs, or the fattest bouncing kings

      That luck is heir to – 'tis a consummation

      Devoutly to be wished. To draw – to skin;

      To skin! perchance to burst – ay, there's the rub!

      For in the draw of three what cards may come,

      When we have shuffled off th' uncertain pack,

      Must give us pause. There's the respect

      That makes calamity of a bobtail flush;

      For who would bear the overwhelming blind,

      The reckless straddle, the wait on the edge,

      The insolence of pat hands and the lifts

      That patient merit of the bluffer takes,

      When he himself might be much better off

      By simply passing? Who would trays uphold,

      And go out on a small progressive raise,

      But that the dread of something after call —

      The undiscovered ace-full, to whose strength

      Such hands must bow, puzzles the will,

      And makes us rather keep the chips we have

      Than be curious about the hands we know not of.

      Thus bluffing does make cowards of us all:

      And thus the native hue of a four-heart flush

      Is sicklied with some dark and cussed club,

      And speculators in a jack-pot's wealth

      With this regard their interest turn away

      And lose the right to open.

      TO have it out or not. That is the question —

      Whether 'tis better for the jaws to suffer

      The pangs and torments of an aching tooth

      Or to take steel against a host of troubles,

      And, by extracting them, end them? To pull – to tug! —

      No more: and by a tug to say we end

      The toothache and a thousand natural ills

      The jaw is heir to. 'Tis a consummation

      Devoutly to be wished! To pull – to tug! —

      To tug – perchance to break! Ay, there's the rub,

      For in that wrench what agonies may come

      When we have half dislodged the stubborn foe,

      Must give us pause. There's the respect

      That makes an aching tooth of so long life.

      For who would bear the whips and stings of pain,

      The old wife's nostrum, dentist's contumely;

      The pangs of hope deferred, kind sleep's delay;

      The insolence of pity, and the spurns,

      That patient sickness of the healthy takes,

      When he himself might his quietus make

      For one poor shilling? Who would fardels bear,

      To groan and sink beneath a load of pain? —

      But that the dread of something lodged within

      The linen-twisted forceps, from whose pangs

      No jaw at ease

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