LAST person to post is the winner!!!

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 wished. To die, to 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, Th' oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely The pangs of despised love, the law's delay, The insolence of office, 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 sweat under a weary life, But that the dread of something after death, The undiscovered country, from whose bourn No traveller returns, puzzles the will, And makes us rather bear those ills we have Than fly to others that we know not of?
Thus conscience does make cowards 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 Ophelia! -- Nymph, in thy orisons Be all my sins remembered.
 
Yes they semi-did.
Bring up the big Bertha Hans, we have some westerners to obliterate
 
All the world's a stage, And all the men and women merely players; They have their exits and their entrances,
And one man in his time plays many parts, His acts being seven ages. At first, the infant, Mewling and puking in the nurse's arms. Then the whining schoolboy, with his satchel And shining morning face, creeping like a snail Unwillingly to school.
 
And as I walk through the valley of the shadow of death I will know no fear,
For as we a marching column of 3 tons of 3 MPH glory.
 
I am known to be a humorous patrician, and one that loves a cup of hot wine with not a drop of allaying Tiber in't; said to be something imperfect in favoring the first complaint; hasty and tinder-like upon too trivial motion; one that converses more with the buttock of the night than with the forehead of the morning. What I think, I utter, and spend my malice in my breath. Meeting two such wealsmen as you are, -- I cannot call you Lycurguses -- if the drink you give me touch my palate adversely, I make a crooked face at it. I cannot say your worships have delivered the matter well, when I find the ass in compound with the major part of your syllables; and though I must be content to bear with those that say you are reverend grave men, yet they lie deadly that tell you you have good faces.

(My hand hurts from copying and pasting)
 
You must log in or register to reply here.

Users who are viewing this thread

Total: 13 (members: 0, guests: 13)

Similar threads

Idea
Halloween Game: Trick or Treat the Avatar Above
Replies
3
Views
100
Kaiju Cat
Kaiju Cat
Back
Top