To eat, to sleep; perchance to dream; aye, there’s the rub,
For in that sleep what nightmare dreams may come;
When we have conquered our dyspepsia
And sought repose upon our bed of corncobs
That makes a burden of our righteous life.
Who could bear this tantor without demur?
The oppressing wrong of the boarding-house mistress,
The pangs of a dyspeptic stomach,
The insolence of the landlady’s daughter,
The stale jokes of her fat husband,