Reply With Quote
To troll, or not to troll: that is the question:
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to make those 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 trolling to say we begin
The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to, 'tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish'd. To make them want to die, to sleep;
To sleep: perchance to dream: ay, there's the rub;
For in that sleep of death what dreams of cucking may come
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause: there's the respect
That makes calamity of so long a cucking;
For who would bear the pussy 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 sperm baths upon thy face
That patient merit of the unworthy takes,
When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare bodkin? who would bear a cucking from a bish you gave everything to?
To grunt and sweat under a weary Gasol while knowing in those stands know what happened to you
But that the dread of something after death, a cucking in the afterlife
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 Amy! Nymph, in thy orisons
Be all my sins remember'd and be napalm in my hair the burns delivered so greatly sting
