To be or not to be: that is the question: Whether ˜tis nobler in the mind to suffer The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, Or to take arms against a sea of troubles, And by opposing end them? To die: to sleep; No more; and, by a sleep to say we end The heartache and the thousand natural shocks That flesh is heir to, 'tis a consummation Devoutly to be wish'd. To die, sleep; To sleep perchance to dream: Ay, there's the rub; For in that sleep of death what dreams may come When we have shuffled off this mortal coil, Must give us pause. There's the respect That makes calamity of so long life; For who would bear the whips and scorns of time The oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely, The pangs of dispriz'd 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 fardels bear, To grunt and sweat under a weary life, But that the dread of something after death, The undiscover'd country from whose bourn No traveler returns, puzzles the will, And makes us rather bear those ills we have Than fly to others that we know not of? Thus conscious does make cowards of us all; And thus the native hue of resolution Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought, And enterprises of great pith and moment With this regard their currents turn awry, And lose the name of action.
William Shakespeare, 1603
Hussein
To bomb or not to bomb: that is the question: Whether ˜tis nobler in the end to suffer The threats and lies of outrageous madmen, Or to take arms against a latent evil, And by opposing depose him? To kill: to reap; No more; and by a reap to say we prevent The terror and the million possible deaths That region seems heir to, ˜tis a reformation Devoutly to be soug't. To kill, to reap; To reap, perchance to glean: Ay, there's the rub; For in our reap of death what gleanings may come When we have scalpel'd off this human boil, Must give us pause. There's the defect That allowed the travesty of such a reign; For what world would bear the quips and scoffs of slime, The oppressive wrongs, the proud king's palaces, Among throngs of unfed children, justice's delay. The arrogance of this offal, and the wounds For him his imprisoned population takes When we ourselves might its terminus make With a spare warhead? Why our leaders bear, To try and speak with this soulless blight, Save the dread of some worse arising, The unreleas'd populace that once released No containment remains, induces a chill, And makes us work this lunatic we have Than move to chaos we know not of? Thus fear can make diplomats of us all; And thus our former cheer of coalition Is trickly'd sour from the stale cask of doubt, And battle plans of fist and torrent With this concern may set the goal aside, And miss the call to action.
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