I prefer Shakespeare
(With all apologizes to the great bard)
To be with her, or not to be with her: that is the question:
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune of being without her
Or to take arms against those that would keep us apart,
And by opposing end them?
The heart-ache she might bring and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to, 'tis a consummation by her
Devoutly to be wish'd, to sleep with her
To sleep: perchance to dream: ay, there's the rub;
For in that sleep what dreams may come of her or without
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 time without her.
The oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely,
The pangs of despised love, the law's delay,
The insolence of office and the spurns
That patient merit of the unworthy as I to have her.
When I myself might my quietus make
With a bare bodkin? who would fardels bear,
To grunt and sweat under a weary life,
But that the dread of something all worth
The undiscover'd country from bourn she was.
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 cowards of us all;
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of the thought of her
And enterprises of great pith and moment
With this regard their currents turn awry,
And lose the name of action. - Soft you now!
The fair Natalie! Nymph, in thy orisons
Be all my sins remember'd but be all your beauty revered
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