To print, or not to print — that is the question. Whether 'tis better in a trunk to bury The quirks and crotches of outrageous fancy, Or sent a well-wrote copy to the press, And, by disclosing, end them. To print, to doubt No more; and by one act to say we end The head-ach, and a thousand natural shocks Of scribbling phrensy — 'tis a consummation Devoutly to be wish'd. To print — to beam From the same shelf with Pope, in calf well bound: To sleep, perchance, with Quarles — Ay, there's the rub— For to what class a writer may be doom'd, When he hath shuffled off some paltry stuff, Must give us pause....
