To pay or not to pay, that is the question:
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous buzzards
Or to take arms against a sea of holdouts,
And by opposing end them. To die--to sleep--
No more; and by a sleep to say we end
The heartache, and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to. 'Tis a consumation
Devoutly to be wish'd. To die--to sleep.
To sleep--perhance to dream: ay, there's the rub!
For in that sleep od 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 so long life.
For who would bear the whips and scorns of the buzzards,
Th' holdout's wrong, the proud man's contumely,
The pangs of despis'd love, the law's delay,
The insolence of office, and the spurns
That patient merit of th' unworthy takes,
When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare bodkin? Who would these fardels bear,
To grunt and sweat under a weary life,
But that the dread of the holdouts and buzzards--
The undiscovered off shore financial paradise
From which no traveller 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 all of us doubt,
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought,
And enterprises of great pith and moment
With this regard their currents turn awry
And lose the name of action. Oh my God!
The buzzards are upon us: may our hunger
be rememb'red in thy orisons!