To drink, or not to drink, that is the question:
Whether 'tis Nobler in the daily life to suffer
The Jobs and Boredom of outrageous Butthurt,
Or to take Beers against a Sea of troubles,
And by opposing end them: to get wasted , to get plastered
No more; and by being plastered, to say we end
The Heart-ache, and the thousand Natural shocks
That Flesh is heir to? 'Tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wished. To die to sleep,
To sleep, perchance to fuck; Aye, there's the rub,
For in that sleep of fuck, what fuck may come,
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause. There's the respect
That makes Asscheecks 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 Laws 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 death,
The undiscovered 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 o'er, with the pale cast of Thought,
And enterprises 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.