The heartache, and the thousand make-shifts
Bach’lors are heirs to; ’tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wished. To marry to live
In peace! Perchance in war; ay, there’s the rub;
For in the marriage state what ills may come,
When we have shuffled off our liberty,
Must give us pause—there’s the respect,
That makes us dread the bonds of wedlock,
For who could bear the noise of scolding wives,
The fits of spleen, th’ extravagance of dress,