This memery
To nog, or not to nog, that is the question:
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous eggnog,
Or to take arms against a sea of eggnog
And by opposing end them. To dieāto 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 & knuckles;
To sleep, perchance to dreamāay, there's the rub:
For in that sleep of death what chuckles may come,
When we have shuffled off this mortal spindash,
Must give us pauseāthere's the respect
That makes eggman of so long life.
For who would bear the whips and scorns of knuckles,
Th'oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely,
The pangs of dispriz'd love, the law's delay,
The insolence of office, and the spurns & knuckles
That patient merit of th'unworthy lives,
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 undiscovere'd country, from whose bourn
No knuckles returns, puzzles the will,
And makes us rather bear those ills we have
Than glide to others that we know not of?
Thus conscience does make chuckles of us all,
And thus the native hue of 1600 x 900 resolution
Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of chuckles,
And enterprises of great pitch and moment & knuckles
With this regard their currents turn awry
And lose the name of action & knuckles.
