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| To be, or not to be: that is the question. | |
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| Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer the shells and secretions of outrageous characterization — or to take tentacles against a sea of questionable taste, and by opposing end it? | |
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| For who would bear the whips and wands of discipline, the shaper's wrong, the writer's contumely, the pangs of despisèd modship, the CoC's delay... when he himself might his quietus make — | |
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| With a bare vlishskin? Who would gastropods bear, to grunt and sweat under a weary life, but that the dread of something after death, the undiscover'd script from whose bourn no spidwebber returns, | |
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| Puzzles the will and makes us rather bear those bugs we have than fly to others that we know not of? Thus conscience does make cowards of us all... Snail, in thy orifices be all my sins remember'd. | |
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| I may not have the predilection for tastelessness that some of us do, but there's no way I'm gonna be demon food after this! | |
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