To be, or not to be: that is the question:
Whether 'tis 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 die: to sleep;
No more; and by a sleep to say we end
The heart-ache and the thousand natural 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;
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause: 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 death,
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 o'er 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. - Soft you now!
The fair Ophelia! Nymph, in thy orisons
Be all my sins remember'd.
I'm in one of my depressed moods, and I happend across Hamlet's speach and I finally took the time to decode it. I must admit that I understand a bit better why people like The Immortal Bard so much, but that matters little at this point in time. You are perhaps thinking, 'What has caused him to become sad yet again?' Well I will tell you, as always it is her. Our paths crossed breifly today. The advantage of the moment was not lost on me, I asked her as polietly as I could manage why she suddenly broke off contact. You of course will not believe the response, but I shall place it here anyway.
"Get over it dear. As long as you think you have feelings for me I won't allow anything to happen. Thats why I'm staying away from you."
My dilema becomes clearer I hope. Suffer from afar while she returns the embrace of another, or deney that which wills me to be near her and lose her any way. Still she questions me, she does not seem to think me capable of knowing my heart. Now I ask, what has happened to the days of yester year? When a lady's displeasure was annouced with a sharp slap to the cheek, or a crushing blow to the niether regions. Perhaps one could take a cue for a more modren methood bearing false witness to the gentelman's conduct. By these actions, I am sure, all feelings would sooon evaporate into the ethier from wence they came. Why must my lady insist on placing me before doors where both are tigers and niether portal accesses her heart?
I pray you forgive my reversion to the high speach of the king's domain. It is the risk I take when reading such texts in my sugestive state. Plus it brings to me a small amount of humor to read this, so factor into your forgiveness the lifting of my heart that reading these words does bring me. Go now with my blessings to you are your kin, as I retreat for the evening to slumber and think of "what dreams may come"
Whether 'tis 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 die: to sleep;
No more; and by a sleep to say we end
The heart-ache and the thousand natural 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;
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause: 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 death,
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 o'er 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. - Soft you now!
The fair Ophelia! Nymph, in thy orisons
Be all my sins remember'd.
I'm in one of my depressed moods, and I happend across Hamlet's speach and I finally took the time to decode it. I must admit that I understand a bit better why people like The Immortal Bard so much, but that matters little at this point in time. You are perhaps thinking, 'What has caused him to become sad yet again?' Well I will tell you, as always it is her. Our paths crossed breifly today. The advantage of the moment was not lost on me, I asked her as polietly as I could manage why she suddenly broke off contact. You of course will not believe the response, but I shall place it here anyway.
"Get over it dear. As long as you think you have feelings for me I won't allow anything to happen. Thats why I'm staying away from you."
My dilema becomes clearer I hope. Suffer from afar while she returns the embrace of another, or deney that which wills me to be near her and lose her any way. Still she questions me, she does not seem to think me capable of knowing my heart. Now I ask, what has happened to the days of yester year? When a lady's displeasure was annouced with a sharp slap to the cheek, or a crushing blow to the niether regions. Perhaps one could take a cue for a more modren methood bearing false witness to the gentelman's conduct. By these actions, I am sure, all feelings would sooon evaporate into the ethier from wence they came. Why must my lady insist on placing me before doors where both are tigers and niether portal accesses her heart?
I pray you forgive my reversion to the high speach of the king's domain. It is the risk I take when reading such texts in my sugestive state. Plus it brings to me a small amount of humor to read this, so factor into your forgiveness the lifting of my heart that reading these words does bring me. Go now with my blessings to you are your kin, as I retreat for the evening to slumber and think of "what dreams may come"