That Danish Guy Bangs On
A lipogram.


Shall I subsist or pass away, that is my quandary:
Is it apt in mind braving
Slings and arrows of Fortuna's whim
Or stand willingly with sword against a storm of discord,
And in so doing vanquish it? To succumb: to loll in torpor;
Stop; and by torpor to say it halts
That sorrow and a myriad natural shocks
That is our mortal lot, 'tis a consummation
Staunchly wish'd. To stop living, to swoon;
Oblivion might grant visions; ay, that's a snag;
For in that fatal sloom what visions approach
In slipping from this mortal coil,
Must obtain our caution: a motivation
That crafts calamity of our long span;
For who would withstand whips and scorns of days,
A tyrant's wrong, a proud man's obloquy,
A pang of discount'd ardor, and law's slow work,
Ungracious officials and spurns
That stoics from unworthy folk withstand,
Why might a man not opt for dissolution
With a bald bodkin? who would carry a pack,
To grunt and toil alow a tiring span,
But our horror of that unknown which dying brings,
An unfamiliar country which boundary
No visitor quits, foils my will
And commands us: bow to your familiar ills
Not fly to unknown tribulations?
Thus rationality crafts cowards from us all;
And thus that bright colour of firm ambition
Is clad with an insipid cast of thought,
And a pursuit of lofty pith and import
With this in mind its flow turn awry,
And mislays its call of action. - Soft you now!
Fair child of Polonius! Nymph, in thy orisons
For all my sins ask absolution.