To whine or not to whine, that is the question.
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer
the slings and arrows of inane blathering,
or by slapping across the face, end them? To sigh, to whine,
No more; and by the whining to say we end
the heart-ache and thousand natural shocks
our ears are heir to, 'tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wished. To sigh, to whine;
To whine: perchance to choke: ay, there's the rub;
for in that open trap what bugs may fly in
when she pauses to breathe,
Must give us pause: there's the respect
that makes calamity of her brain;
For who would bear the hot air floating from her mouth,
Her animadversions, Her utter stupidities,
The pangs of no escape, the lack of a straitjacket,
The insolence of her tongue and the spurns
That patient merit of the unworthy takes,
When we ourselves might our quietus make
By choking her to death? Who would fardels bear,
To grunt and sweat under her grating voice,
But that the dread of something after her death,
The undiscoverer'd country from whose bourn
She might return to haunt us, puzzles the will
And makes us rather bear those ills we have
Than fly to others 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 fists tingling with power
With this regard their currents turn awry,
And lose the name of choking.