To be or not to be. Where lays nobility?
Doth thou suffer fortune’s arrows and slings,
Or take up arms and, with thy ability,
Calm troubled seas with manly widespread wings?
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To die, to sleep, no more: The end of pain,
And grief, and fear, and life’s foul souvenirs.
In coffins’ rest, there’s much thou hast to gain.
For ends therein, cascades of heartaches’ tears.
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To sleep, perchance to dream eternal dreams.
But halt thy thoughts, for there: That be the rub.
When haunted by our mortal sins and schemes,
What evil dreams may squirm like worm and grub?
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When shuffled off our mortal coil of flesh,
Must give us pause and leave us to reflect,
Will whips and scorns attack our souls and thrash
A lash of fire for all our sins unchecked:
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Oppressive wrongs, a proud man’s pride, and more,
Despised rejected love, and law’s delay,
Unworthy thefts from those who pulled the oar,
And sins of those of whom we have led astray?
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Why does man elect to wrestle worldly strife,
When he himself could grasp eternal sleep?
He grunts and sweats and groans with weary life,
Spurns rest but presses on with sorrows deep.
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He dreads a dread of something after death:
A country shroud in mists and darkest lore,
From which no tale, report nor whispered breath
Assures of what our fate lies there before.
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Thus conscious does make cowards of us all.
Despite steel-clad, heartfelt resolution,
Yes, Thought sickles our courage, grit and gall
To freeze us here, denying absolution.
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With strongest stride reduced to pitied limp.
Lo, soft you now! Memories surrendered.
In fair Ophelia’s orisons, o sweet nymph,
Be all my many whispered sins remembered!
