When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause, there’s the respect,
That makes calamity of so long a life;
For who would bear the whips and scorn of time,
The oppressor’s wrong, the proud man’s contumely,
The pangs of misprized love, the law’s delay,
The insolence of office, and the spurns
That patient merit of the unworthy takes,
When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare bodkin? Who would these fardels bear,