By many a damsel brave and rouge of cheek;
Nor did he know each aged watchman's beat,
Nor in obscured purlieus would he seek
For curled Jewesses, with ankles neat,
Who, as they walk abroad, make tinkling with their feet.
NO wed, or not to wed? That is the question Whether 't is nobler in the mind to suffer The pangs and arrows of outrageous love Or to take arms against the powerful flame And by oppressing quench it.
To wed-to marry
And by a marriage say we end
The heartache and the thousand painful shocks
Love makes us heir to 't is a consummation
Devoutly to be wished! to wed-to marry-
Perchance a scold! aye, there's the rub!
For in that wedded life what ills may come
When we have shuffled off our single state
Must give us serious pause. There's the respect
That makes us Bachelors a numerous race.
For who would bear the dull unsocial hours
Spent by unmarried men, cheered by no smile.
To sit like hermit at a lonely board
In silence? Who would bear the cruel gibes
With which the Bachelor is daily teased
When he himself might end such heart-felt griefs
By wedding some fair maid? Oh, who would live
Yawning and staring sadly in the fire
Till celibacy becomes a weary life
But that the dread of something after wed-lock
(That undiscovered state from whose strong chains.
No captive can get free) puzzles the will
And makes us rather choose those ills we have
Than fly to others which a wife may bring.
Thus caution doth make Bachelors of us all,
And thus our natural taste for matrimony
Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought.
And love adventures of great pith and moment
With this regard their currents turn away
And lose the name of Wedlock.
draw, or not to draw, that is the
Whether 't is safer in the player to take The awful risk of skinning for a straight, Or, standing pat, to raise 'em all the limit And thus, by bluffing, get in. To draw,- to skin; No more and by that skin to get a full, Or two pairs, or the fattest bouncing kings That luck is heir to 't is a consummation Devoutly to be wished. To draw to skin; To skin! perchance to burst-ay, there's the rub! For in the draw of three what cards may come, When we have shuffled off th' uncertain pack, Must give us pause. There's the respect That makes calamity of a bobtail flush; For who would bear the overwhelming blind,
The reckless straddle, the wait on the edge,
The insolence of pat hands and the lifts
That patient merit of the bluffer takes,
When he himself might be much better off
By simply passing? Who would trays uphold,
And go out on a small progressive raise,
But that the dread of something after call-
The undiscovered ace-full, to whose strength
Such hands must bow, puzzles the will,
And makes us rather keep the chips we have
Than be curious about the hands we know not of.
Thus bluffing does make cowards of us all:
And thus the native hue of a four-heart flush
Is sicklied with some dark and cussed club,
And speculators in a jack-pot's wealth
With this regard their interest turn away
And lose the right to open.
NO have it out or not. That is the question-
Whether 't is better for the jaws to suffer
The pangs and torments of an aching tooth Or to take steel against a host of troubles, And, by extracting them, end them? To pull to tug!
No more and by a tug to say we end
The toothache and a thousand natural ills
The jaw is heir to. 'T is a consummation
Devoutly to be wished! To pull — to tug! -
To tug-perchance to break! Ay, there's the rub,
For in that wrench what agonies may come
When we have half dislodged the stubborn foe,
Must give us pause. There's the respect
That makes an aching tooth of so long life.
For who would bear the whips and stings of pain,
The old wife's nostrum, dentist's contumely;
The pangs of hope deferred, kind sleep's delay;
The insolence of pity, and the spurns,
That patient sickness of the healthy takes,
When he himself might his quietus make
For one poor shilling? Who would fardels bear,
To groan and sink beneath a load of pain? —
But that the dread of something lodged within
The linen-twisted forceps, from whose pangs
No jaw at ease returns, puzzles the will,
And makes it rather bear the ills it has
Than fly to others that it knows not of.
Thus dentists do make cowards of us all,
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of fear;
And many a one, whose courage seeks the door,
With this regard his footsteps turns away,
Scared at the name of dentist.
ELL, don't cry, my little tiny boy, With hey, ho, the wind and the rain Amuse yourself, and break some toy, For the rain it raineth every day.
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