Chatter Chief Of Staff Application 1331 After William Shakespeare, Hamlet's Soliloquy Poem by Jonathan ROBIN

Hamlet's Soliloquy

To be, or not to be: that is the question:
Whether 'tis nobler in mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,
And by opposing end them.
To die: to 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 consumation Devoutly to be wish'd.
To die, to sleep;
To Sleep? Perchance to dream! aye there's the rub;
For in that sleep of 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 such long life;
For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
The oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely,
The pang's of depised love, the law's delay,
The insolence of office, and the spurns
That patient merit of the unworthy takes,
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 undiscovered country from whose bourn
No traveler 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 cowards of us all,
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought,
And enterprises of great pitch and moment
With this regard their currents turn awry
And lose the name of action.

Hamlet's Soliloquy Imitated

To print, or not to print - that is the question.
Whether ‘tis better in a trunk to bury
The quirks and crotchets of outrageous fancy,
Or send a well-wrote copy to the press,
And, by disclosing, end them. To print, to doubt
No more; and by one act to say we end
The head-ache, and a thousand natural shocks
Of scribbling frenzy, - ‘tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish'd. To print - to beam
From the same shelf with Pope, in calf well bound!
To sleep, perchance, with Quarles - Ay there's the rub -
For to what class a writer may be doom'd,
When he hath shuffled off some paltry stuff,
Must give us pause. - There's the respect that makes
Th'unwilling poet keep his piece nine years.
For who would bear th'impatient thirst of fame,
The pride of conscious merit, and ‘bove all,
The tedious importunity of friends,
When as himself might his quietus make
With a bare inkhorn. Who would fardels bear-
To groan and sweat under a load of wit -
But that the tread of steep Parnassus' hill,
That undiscover'd country, with whose bays
Few travellers return, puzzles the will,
And makes us rather bear to live unknown
Than run the hazard to be known, and damn'd.
Thus critics do make cowards of us all.
And thus the healthful face of many a poem
Is sickly'd o'er with a pale manuscript;
And enterprisers of great fire, and spirit,
With this regard from Dodsley turn away,
And lose the name of authors.

Richard IAGO

Hamlet's Cat's Soliloquy
To go outside, and there perchance to stay
Or to remain within: that is the question:
Whether 'tis better for a cat to suffer
The cuffs and buffets of inclement weather
That Nature rains on those who roam abroad,

Or take a nap upon a scrap of carpet,
And so by dozing melt the solid hours
That clog the clock's bright gears with sullen time
And stall the dinner bell.

To sit, to stare
Outdoors, and by a stare to seem to state
A wish to venture forth without delay,
Then when the portal's opened up, to stand
As if transfixed by doubt.

To prowl; to sleep;
To choose not knowing when we may once more
Our readmittance gain: aye, there's the hairball;
For if a paw were shaped to turn a knob,
Or work a lock or slip a window-catch,
And going out and coming in were made
As simple as the breaking of a bowl,
What cat would bear the household's petty plagues,
The cook's well-practiced kicks, the butler's broom,
The infant's careless pokes, the tickled ears,
The trampled tail, and all the daily shocks
That fur is heir to, when, of his own free will,
He might his exodus or entrance make
With a mere mitten?

Who would spaniels fear,
Or strays trespassing from a neighbor's yard,
But that the dread of our unheeded cries
And scratches at a barricaded door
No claw can open up, dispels our nerve
And makes us rather bear our humans' faults
Than run away to unguessed miseries?

Thus caution doth make house cats of us all;
And thus the bristling hair of resolution
Is softened up with the pale brush of thought,
And since our choices hinge on weighty things,
We pause upon the threshold of decision.

Henry Augustin Beard

If Dr. Seuss had written Hamlet - Green Eggs and Hamlet

I ask to be, or not to be.
That is the question, I ask of me.
This sullied life, it makes me shudder.
My uncle's boffing dear, sweet mother.
Would I, could I take my life?
Could I, should I, end this strife?
Should I jump out of a plane?
Or throw myself before a train?
Should I from a cliff just leap?
Could I put myself to sleep?
Shoot myself, or take some poison?
Maybe try self immolation?
To shuffle off this mortal coil,
I could stab myself with a fencing foil.
Slash my wrists while in the bath?
Would it end my angst and wrath?
To sleep, to dream, now there's the rub.
I could dropp a toaster in my tub.
Would all be glad, if I were dead?
Could I perhaps kill them instead?
This line of thought takes consideration -
For I'm the king of procrastination.


Author Unknown Parody Dr Seuss and Hamlet

The Pausing American Loyalist

To sign, or not to sign? That is the question,
Whether 'twere better for an honest man
To sign, and so be safe; or to resolve,
Betide what will, against associations,
And, by retreating, shun them. To fly - I reck
Not where: And, by that flight, t' escape
Feathers and tar, and thousand other ills
That loyalty is heir to: 'Tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wished. To fly - to want -
To want? Perchance to starve: Ay, there's the rub!
For, in that chance of want, what ills may come
To patriot rage, when I have left my all -
Must give me pause: - There's the respect
That makes us trim, and bow to men we hate.
For, who would bear th' indignities o' th' times,
Congress decrees, and wild convention plans,
The laws controll'd, and inj'ries unredressed,
The insolence of knaves, and thousand wrongs
Which patient liege men from vile rebels take,
When he, sans doubt, might certain safety find,
Only by flying? Who would bend to fools,
And truckle thus to mad, mob-chosen upstarts,
But that the dread of something after flight
(In that blest country, where, yet, no moneyless
Poor wight can live) puzzles the will,
And makes ten thousands rather sign - and eat.
Than fly - to starve on loyalty. -
Thus, dread of want makes rebels of us all:
And thus the native hue of loyalty
Is sicklied o'er with a pale cast of trimming;
And enterprises of great pith and virtue,
But unsupported, turn their streams away,
And never come to action.

Author Unknown - Middlesex Journal, January 30,1776

To e-mail, or not to e-mail.

To e-mail, or not to e-mail: that is the question:
Whether ‘tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The spam and Junk mails of outrageous contact list
Or to take arms against a sea of viruses
And by opposing delet them? To e-mail, to reply
No more; and by a Forward say we begin
The Junk mails and the thousands of natural Spam
That the inbox is heir to, ‘tis a consummation
Devoutly to be fended. To e-mail, to Reply;
To Reply! Perchance to forward: ay, there's the rub;
For after that Reply, what Forwards may come,
When we have shuffled off this Inbox,
Must give us e-mails: there's the suspect
That makes Inbox of 250MB storage so small
For who would bear the spam and Junk mails all the time,
The Hacker's wrong, the chatters contumely,
The pang of un-sent messages, the Internet connection reset,
The insolence of msn and it's spurns
That members merit of unworthy e-mails,
When msn itself might it's deletion make
With a delet button? Who would these fardels bear,
To Block and Delete under a weary internet,
But that the dread of something after deletion,
The undiscovered websites, from whose browse
No navigator returns, puzzles the will,
And makes us rather bear those viruses we receive
Than forward to others that we know not of?
Thus e-mails does make cowards of us all;
And thus navigators hope of renovation,
Is sicklied o'er with their lack of storage space;
And memberships of great pith and moment,
With this regard, their accounts taken away,
And lose name of theirs. So calm you now!
The fair members! Always-Online, in thy inbox
Be all my e-mails remember'd.

Ayesha TARAR

An Actor's Dilemma

Do porn, or not do porn: that is the question
Whether 'tis better for the career to suffer
The wooden acting and outrageous plot lines,
And two bare arms against a sea of bodies,
And more imposing ends, then? To wit: to woo;
If wooing lacketh wit, then partake not
The ball-ache and the large unnatural rocks.
That flesh is bare too, 'tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish'd. To lie, to sleep;
Sleep with: perchance to cream: ay, there's the rub;
For in that sleeping with, what dreams may come
When she has nuzzled off this vorpal blade,
Must give us pause: there's the respect
That makes celebrity of so long a knife;
For who would wield his weapon scores of times,
In celluloid, stands proud the man's contumely,
The video, the DVD that may
The insolence of tabloids and the press
Who print when merit shows and with fame endowed
When ev'ry page doth show photos they take
With a bare bodkin? who would condoms wear,
To grunt and sweat under a leary wife,
But that the dread of something infectious
The undiscover'd spirochete from whose bed
No traveller returns, the whole unharmed
And makes us show when bare those ills we have
Then finding others that we know not of?
Thus syphilis makes cowards of us all;
And yet the highly-defined resolution,
Lets loose the driving hormones' rush, past all thought,
And promised vistas of great piles of money
With this regard then heads are turned awry,
And in the name of action. - Soft it ain't!
The fair Ophelia! Nymph, in Technicolor
Be all my sins remember'd.

Phil ALEXANDER 19_20

Bachelor's Soliloquy

Marry, or not to marry? That is the question -
Whether ‘tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The sullen silence of these cobweb rooms,
Or seek in festive halls some cheerful dame,
And, by uniting, end it. To live alone -
No more! And by marrying, say we end
The heart-ache, and those throes and make-shifts
Bachelors are heirs to. ‘Tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wished,
To marry - to live in peace -
Perchance in war: aye, there's the rub,
For in the marriage state what ills may come,
When we have shuffled off our liberty,
Must give us pause. There's the respect
That makes us dread the bonds of wedlock;
For who could bear the noise of scolding wives,
The fits of spleen, th'extravagance of dress,
The thirst for plays, for concerts, and for balls;
The insolence of servants, and the spurns
That patient husbands from their consorts take,
When he himself might his quietus gain
By living single.

Who would wish to bear
The jeering name of Bachelor,
But that the dread of something after marriage,
(Ah, that vast expenditure of income,
The tongue can scarcely tell) , puzzles the will,
And makes us rather choose the single life,
Than go to gaol for debts we know not of!
Economy thus makes Bachelors of us still,
And thus our melancholy resolution
Is still increased upon more various thought.

Spirit of the Public Journals 1824

The Serial Killer's Soliloquy

To kill, or not to kill: that is the question:
Whether ‘tis nobler to not murder
The innocent people living pathetic lives,
Or to take arms against a sea of people,
Opposing me I end them. To execute; to terminate
Lots more; and by terminate I end their pitiful
Lives, and the thousand others that they bred,
More fresh flesh, ‘tis a consummation
I devoutly wish for. To massacre, to slaughter;
To eradicate: to fulfill my dream: ay, there's the catch;
For in that plague of death my dreams will come,
But only if I keep myself alive,
I cannot pause: there's the consideration
That cause us to live a long life or die:
For who would bear the harsh experiences of life,
When they could die, by the proud man's scorn,
He who despises love, and the useless law,
And those fools of office, who I shall butcher,
My patience shall help me take them,
When they do not realize that they may save
Themselves. I would not bear their burden
To grunt and sweat under a miserable life,
But that the fear of something after death,
The undiscovered realm of which limits
No one returns, puzzles the mind
And makes us save the ill we have
When we could be disemboweling them?
Thus, conscience does make use all cowards,
And thus the true color of courage
Is destroyed by our over thinking,
My ability to kill is of such great significance
That to turn it around I will lose all my power
To slaughter and massacre. Look over there!
The fair Ophelia! It appears that I shall get
Both fair and fresh flesh today.
Be all my sins remember'd.

Parody Unknown Author 0245

Bachelor's Soliloquy

To wed, or not to wed; - that is the question:
Whether 'tis nobler in a man to suffer
The slings and sorrows of that blind young archer;
Or fly to arms against a host of troubles,
And at the altar end them. To woo - to wed -
No more; and by this step to say we end
The heartache, and the thousand hopes and fears
The single suffer - 'tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wished. To woo - to wed; -
To wed - perchance repent? - ay, there's the rub;
For in that wedded state, what woes may come
When we have launched upon that untried sea
Must give us pause. There's the respect
That makes celibacy of so long life;
For who would bear the quips and jeers of friends,
The husband's pity, and the coquette's scorn,
The vacant hearth, the solitary cell,
The unshared sorrow, and the void within,
When he himself might his redemption gain
With a fair damsel. Who would beauty shun
To toil and plod over a barren heath;
But that the dread of something yet beyond -
The undiscovered country, from whose bourne
No bachelor returns - puzzles the will,
And makes us rather bear those ills we have
Than fly to others that we know not of?
Thus forethought does make cowards of us all,
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought,
And numberless flirtations, long pursued,
With this regard, their currents turn awry
And lose the name of marriage.

Unknown Author 0039

To An Acting Waitress, or Waiting Actress

To wait, or not to wait, that's in the question,
especially when some guests get indigestion
[when they grow tougher then the going's rougher]
Whether ‘tis nobler in the mind to suffer
the strings and sorrows of outrageous patrons,
the binges of obese Manhattan matrons,
the noisy kids, - their straw-blown soda bubbles:
or to take arms against such teething troubles
and by opposing, end them? Still keep one's cool,
condone uncouth conduct? Gladly suffer fools?

There's surely something rotten in Life's rules
when talent's turned to bars and barred from schools,
when terms of reference ability are not retained
but cash-commitment terms need be regained.
For there are pressing claims and urgent needs,
though many try, scarce one percent succeeds,
and one percent of these may save their soul
as economic pressures take their toll
of high ideals, oft leaving empty shell
and little else as epitaph, ah well!

Fame, fickle, tithes her victims. Actors' knell
tolls far more frequently than curtain bell.
Thus those who would their sacred dream preserve,
who from dell'arte's path would never swer,
must make much sacrifice. To serve, observe,
the scene, and by to serve we mean to fend,
[or else to unemployment most descend]
the heartburn and the thousand natural shocks
frail flesh is heir to. Men gorge till doctor knocks!
Is such consumption devoutly to be wished?
Ere shift's resumption let the check be dished!

She better fate deserves! To serve, observe
the table ‘they' reserve too often stands
unused, spinsterlike longing for unknown hands,
the shining silver serving to reflect
the restless queue, in order ready-pecked,
which full of sound and fury takes its cue,
observing, spiting, little else to do,
from tipplers caring more for ceaseless sips
then for efficient service or her tips.
To serve, unwaiting wait. Oh what a weight,
especially if she'd rather be his date!
for in that waiting work few dreams may come
until one's shuffled off that uniform
which often scratches, rubs. Where's the respect?
She's human, not a worm, nor less insect!
It makes calamity with such long hours,
so underpaid, while taxing all her powers.
Expending all youth's energies for cents
as others benefit at her expense,
their's the profits, for self little sense!

For who would bear these whips and scorns for long,
patrons' contumely, supervisor's wrong,
the pangs of wasted food, ill-cooked, despised,
[the impudence where, uninvited, eyed
the worthless stranger who advances tried,
who may not be so easily denied
in public places audience - she cried! ]
Waste in untasted food, those long delays,
days melting into nights, nights into days,
the insolence of chefs, and the sharp spurns
that patient merit from the unworthy takes.
When she herself might true quietus make
with rare home cooking? Who would fardels bear,
insults at work, with little time to spare,
to grunt and sweat under a weary life
with strife at work, at home, through tiredness, strife!
But that the dread of nothing else to do,
lest dreams sound hollow, courses follow through,
or kids to mind, rent find and clothing too,
threats unemployment act upon morale.
‘Tis true, and all to often ça fait mal!

The options open often puzzle will,
and make us rather bear those ills we have
than fly to others that we know not of.
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all,
for few will answer truly to life's call.
Thus the native hue of resolution
is sicklied over with pale cast of thought
losing all instinctive love of living!

Should one desire to act upon dire fate,
ambitions fire! React! No longer wait!

2 November 1981

Hamlet


Prince Hamlet thought Uncle a traitor,
For having it off with his Mater;
Revenge Dad or not?
That's the gist of the plot,
And he did, nine soliloquies later!

Stanley J. Sharpless
Cremation

To Urn, or not to Urn? that is the question:
Whether ‘tis better in our frames to suffer
The shows and follies of outrageous custom,
Or to take fire against a sea of zealots,
And, by consuming, end them? To Urn, to keep,
No more: and while we keep, to say we end
Contagion, and the thousand graveyard ills
That flesh is heir to, ‘tis a consumme-ation
Devoutly to be wished! To burn, to keep,
To keep! Perchance to lose, ay, there's the rub!
For in the course of things what duns may come,
Or who may shuffle off our Dresden urn,
Must give us pause. There's the respect
That makes inter-i-ment of so long use;
For who would have the pall and plumes of hire,
The tradesman's prize, a proud man's obsequies,
The chaffering for graves, the legal fee,
The cemetery beadle, and the rest,
When he himself might his few ashes make
With a mere furnace? Who would tombstones bear,
And lie beneath a lying epitaph,
But that the dread of simmering after death,
That uncongenial furnace from whose burn
No incremate returns, weakens the will,
And makes us rather bear the graves we have
Than fly to ovens that we know not of?

Author Unknown
Poetical Ingenuities 1882 W.T. DOBSON

Toothache

To have it out or not. That is the question -
Whether ‘tis better for the jaws to suffer
The pangs and forments of an aching tooth,
Or to take steel against a host of troubles,
And, by extracting, 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. ‘Tis 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 dislodge 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 forcepts, 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, whos courage seeks the door,
With this regard his footsteps turns away,
Scared at the name of dentist.

Author Unknown 19th c. Parody

Bachelor's Soliloquy

A Reply to the Bachelor's Soliloquy - By a Widower

To wed, or not to wed? That is the question -
Whether ‘tis nobler for human kind to fill
The world with pledges of virtuous love,
Or to oppose the laws of Goad and man,
And crowd the earth with spurious offspring?
To live, to love - yes, more, and have that love return'd,
Cures every heart-ache, and the thousand shocks
‘Bachelors are heir to.' ‘Tis a consummation
Devoutly to be priz'd. To live, to love,
And have that love return'd, is bliss complete!
For in that virtuous love what joys do come,
When we have shuffled off our daily toil,
Present themselves! There's the delight
That makes the wedded state so happy in this life.
To see the smiles, and hear the lisping notes
Of those sweet darlings of our virtuous love;
To trace the features, and behold in miniature
The object of our life, is life indeed.
To crown the whole - who would forego
That sweet communion - that intercourse of soul -
That social interest, and that wise economy,
Which reign predominant in the marriage state -
when he might all those blessings gain
By being married?
Who would not wish to bear
The pleasing nameof Husband -
Enjoy a fortune, reputation, health,
With cherubs sweet, and partner dear as life,
Than live in dissipation - puzzles not man,
But makes the Bachelor his titles change
For those fine names which now he only knows.
Thus matrimony shines conspicuous still,
And thus the fair one's resolution
Is still increased upon those vertuous thoughts.

Spirit of Public Journals - 1824 The Herald

Bachelor's Soliloquy

To wed, or not to wed? That is the question -
Whether ‘tis 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 saywe end
The heartache and the thousand painful shocks
Love makes us heir to - ‘tis 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 hermitat 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? O, 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
None single may return unscathed, taste liberty anew)


Unknown Author 0038

The Bachelor's Soliloquy

Marry, or not to Marry? That is the question -
Whether ‘tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The sullen silence of these cobweb rooms,
Or seek in festive halls some cheerful dame,
And, by uniting, end it. To live alone
No more! And by marrying, say we end
The heart-ache, and those throes and make-shifts
Bachelors are heirs to. ‘Tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wished.
To marry - to live in peace -
Perchance in war: aye, there's the rub;
For in the marriage state what ills may come
When we have shuffled off our liberty,
Must give us pause. There's the respect
That makes us dread the bonds of wedlock;
For who could bear the noise of scolding wives,
The fits of spleen, th'extravangance of dress,
The thirst for plays, for concerts, and for balls;
The insolence of servants, and the spurns
That patient husbands from their consorts take,
When he himself might his quietus gain
By living single.
Who would wish to bear the jeering name of Bachelor,
But that the dread of something after marriage -
(Ah, that vast expenditure of income,
The tongue can scarcely tell) , puzzles the will,
And makes us rather choose the single life,
Than go to gaol for debts we know not of!
Economy thus makes Bachelors of us still,
And thus our melancholy resolution
Is still increased upon more various thought.

pseud Spirit of Public Journals Author Unknown c.1824

Happy Thoughts

To sniggle or to dibble, that's the question!
Whether to bait a book with worm or bumble,
Or to take up arms of any sea, some trouble
To fish, and then home send ‘em. To fly - to whip -
To moor and tie my boat up by the end
To any wooden post or natural rock
We may be near to, on a Preservation
Devoutly to be fished. To fly - to whip -
To whip! perchance two bream; - and there's the chub!

Francis Cowley Burnand 1836_1914

Poker

To draw, or not to draw, - that is the question: -
Whether ‘tis 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 - ‘tis 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 cussèd club,
And speculators in a jack-pot's wealth.
With this regard their interest turn away
And lose the right to open.

Author Unknown 1828 Spirit of Public Journals

Tobacco

To smoke or not to smoke, that is the question:
Whether a mild cigar assists dirgestion;
Or, whether it begets a kind of quaintness
Which some say was nothing but a faintness.
To smoke - to drink and then to go to bed;
To find a pillow for an aching head,
To snore - perchance to dream! and half your senses scare
With visionary demons or nightmare.
To wake, in perspiration nicely dished,
‘Tis a consummation hardly to be wished,
For who would bear the kicks, cuffs, and abuse
Of this base world, when he might cook his goose
Upon his toasting fork? Or who would care
For half the motley groups which at his stare,
Some morning early, stuck before the bench,
When soda-water would his fever quench,
But that a little thing within doth call?
Thus porter doth make rumuns of us all:
And thus our resolution to keep sober
Is drown'd and soon forgot in good October.
But hush! my Phelia comes, the pretty dear:
Oh! think of me love - when you fetch your beer.

Parody Unknown Author 0277

To Smoke, or not to Smoke

To smoke, or not to smoke - that is the question!
Whether ‘tis better to abjure the habit,
And trust the warnings of a scribbling doctor,
Or buy at once a box of best Havanas,
And ten a day consume them? To smoke, to puff,
Nay more, to waste the tender fabric of the lungs
And risk consumption and its thousand ills
The practice leads to - ‘tis a consummation
Discreetly to be shunned. To smoke. To puff -
To puff, perhaps to doze - ay, there's the rub;
For in that dozing state we thirsty grow,
And, having burned the tube up to a stump,
We must have a drink, and that's one cause
We modern youth are destined to short life:
For who can bear to feel his mouth parched up,
His throat like whalebone and his chest exhausted,
His head turned giddy, and his nerves unstrung,
When he himself might drench these ills away
With wine or brandy? Who could live in smoke,
And pine and sicken with a secret poison;
But that the dread of breaking o'er a rule
Prescribed by Fashion, whose controlling will
None disobey, puzzles ambitious youth,
And makes us rather bear the ills we feel
Than others that the doctor warns us of.
Thus custom does make spectres of us all,
And thus the native hue of our complexion
Is sicklied o'er witth a consumptive cast;
The appetite, a loss of greater moment,
Palled by the weed, and the digestive powers
Lose all their action.

John W Farrell 1851_1904