From thought, that canker-worm to gay desires,
From cares that feed upon the lamp of life.
’Tis a fruition devoutly to be wished,
To hunt—to ride—to ride? perchance to fall;
Ay, there’s the rub—
For in the mad pursuit what falls may come,
When ev’ry hound each hardy sinew strains,
And ev’ry breeze conveys enrapt’ring sounds,
Must give us pause!—There’s the respect
That gives the fatal blow to promis’d joys,