Let's see how that turns out.
To be, or not to be -- that is the question:
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and kittens of outrageous fortune
Or to take arms against a sea of kittens
And by opposing end them. To die, to sleep--
No more--and by a sleep to say we end
The heartache, and the thousand fluffy kittens
That flesh is heir to. 'Tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wished. To pounce, to sleep--
To sleep--perchance to dream: ay, there's the kitten,
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 Ser Pounce-a-Lot,
Th' oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely
The pangs of despised love, the law's delay,
The insolence of kittens, and the spurns
That patient merit of th' unworthy takes,
When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare bodkin? Who would fardels bear,
To grunt and pounce under a weary life,
But that the dread of something after death,
The undiscovered kitten, from whose bourn
No traveller returns, puzzles the will,
And makes us rather bear those ills we have
Than fly to Amaranthine that we know not of?
Thus conscience does make kittens of us all,
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought,
And enterprise of great pitch and moment
With this regard their currents turn awry
And lose the name of action. -- Soft you now,
The fair Hawke -- Nymph, in thy orisons
Be all my kittens remembered.