LianaLi
09-19-2004, 07:25 AM
I always hated Hamlet. And my lack of patience with dating didn't help. Hats off to the Bard for giving me most of the structure of this.
To call or not to call, that is the question.
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous dating.
Or to take arms against a sea of men,
And by each opposing, so choose one: To date, to sleep,
With just one, and by a sleep to say we mate.
And so end the chase and the thousand natural passes
Men are bound to make. Tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wished. To date, to sleep,
To sleep, perchance to love, aye there's the rub.
For in that little death, what dreams may come?
When we have shuffled off this ritual of courtship,
Nudity must give us pause; there's the respect
That rewards the diligence of so long a wait.
For who would bear the whips and scorns of lover's past,
The cheater's wrong, the blind dates forfeit,
The pangs of despie'd love, the law's delay,
The insolence of others, and the spurns,
Of calls unreturned, that three day wait,
When he himself might his advance make,
With a single date. Who would dare to hesitate,
To grunt and sweat under a dreary night,
But that draw of something after cocktails,
The lavicious country from whose bossom
No man leaves free of lust- puzzles us all-
And makes us rather bear those ills we chase,
Than fly to others that we only dream of?
Thus love does make fools of us all.
And thus the natrual course of emotion
Is sickled o'er with the pale cast of thought.
And enterprizes of great seduction and love,
With this regard their currents turn awry,
And lose the name of action.
To call or not to call, that is the question.
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous dating.
Or to take arms against a sea of men,
And by each opposing, so choose one: To date, to sleep,
With just one, and by a sleep to say we mate.
And so end the chase and the thousand natural passes
Men are bound to make. Tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wished. To date, to sleep,
To sleep, perchance to love, aye there's the rub.
For in that little death, what dreams may come?
When we have shuffled off this ritual of courtship,
Nudity must give us pause; there's the respect
That rewards the diligence of so long a wait.
For who would bear the whips and scorns of lover's past,
The cheater's wrong, the blind dates forfeit,
The pangs of despie'd love, the law's delay,
The insolence of others, and the spurns,
Of calls unreturned, that three day wait,
When he himself might his advance make,
With a single date. Who would dare to hesitate,
To grunt and sweat under a dreary night,
But that draw of something after cocktails,
The lavicious country from whose bossom
No man leaves free of lust- puzzles us all-
And makes us rather bear those ills we chase,
Than fly to others that we only dream of?
Thus love does make fools of us all.
And thus the natrual course of emotion
Is sickled o'er with the pale cast of thought.
And enterprizes of great seduction and love,
With this regard their currents turn awry,
And lose the name of action.