To bi or not to bi, that is the question:
Whether 'tis nobler in the body to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous horniness,
Or to take arms (legs, torso) within this sea of troubles and by endulging, end them?
To release, to sleep some more; and by sleep to say we end the heartache
And the thousand natural shocks that flesh is heir to!
'Tis a consumation devoutly to be wished.
To release, to sleep...
To sleep! Perchance to dream;
Aye, there's the rub when we have shuffled against this mortal coil,
Must give us pause...
There's the respect that makes calamity of so empty life;
For who would bear the whips and chains of bondage,
The oppressor's wrong, the proud man's statue,
The pangs of despised love, the law's delay,
The isolence of orifice,
And the spurns that patient merit of the unworthy takes,
When he himself his release make with a bare bodkin?
Who would himself bare,
To grunt and sweat under a weary wife,
But that the dread of something after marriage,
The undiscovered country, from whose touch no traveler returns,
Puzzles the will, and makes us rather bare those parts we have
Than to fly to others that we know not of?
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all;
And thus the native hue of resolution is sickled over with the pale cast of thought;
And enterprises of great release and movement,
With this regard, their currents turn away,
And loose the name of action.