Whether ’tis nobler on th’ whole person to suffer
The grime and lankness of the long-worn garment,
Or to take soap against a siege of stain-spots,
And by stout scrubbing, end them. To wash—to scrub
No more; and by that toil to say, we end
The mud-splash, and the thousand various soils
Which linen catches—’tis a consummation
With both fists to be strove for! To wash, to dry,
To dry, perchance in frost—ay there’s the rub!
For in that chance of frost what coals must burn,