Chatter Chief Of Staff Application 1331 After William Shakespeare Hamlet's Soliloquy
To verse, or role reverse, that's in the question,
when writer's block may cause some indigestion -
[with contests tougher then the going's rougher] -
Whether ‘tis nobler in the mind to suffer
the strings and sorrows of outrageous scribblers,
the binges of obsessional dribblers,
the noisy cutters' red, black, unread bubbles:
or to take arms against such teething troubles
and by opposing, end them? Still keep one's cool,
guide, bona fide, and gladly suffer fools? For who would bear these whips and scorns for long,
envy contumely, commentator's wrong,
the pangs of wasted lines, free-versed, despised, -
(the impudence where, uninvited, eyed
the worthless stranger who advances tried,
who may not be so easily denied
in public places audience - we've cried!) -
Waste in untasted verse, those long delays,
days melting into nights, nights into days,
the insolence of judges, the sharp spurns
that patient merit from the unworthy takes.
When writer might some true quietus make
with rare home cooking? Who would fardels bear,
insults A.P., with little time to spare,
to grunt and sweat under a wordy life
with strife at work, A.P., through envy, - strife!
But that the dread of nothing else to do,
lest dreams sound hollow, isolation too,
or kids to mind, rent find and clothing too, -
threats unemployment act upon morale.
‘Tis true, and all too often ça fait mal! Hamlet's Soliloquy
To be, or not to be: that is the question:
Whether 'tis nobler in 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 consumation Devoutly to be wish'd.
To die, to sleep;
To Sleep? Perchance to dream! aye 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 such long life;
For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
The oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely,
The pang's of depised 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 undiscovered country from whose bourn
No traveler 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.
William Shakespeare Hamlet