To write, or not to write, that is the quandary:

Whether ’tis possible in the mind to transcribe the breadth of language when lacking genius,

Or if one must succumb to a sea of desolation,

And by yielding, will flounder. To think—to pause,

No more; and by a pause to say we end

The unease and the thousand natural inabilities

That a writer is heir to: ’tis a consummation

Devoutly to be wish’d. To think, to pause;

To pause, perchance an epiphany—ay, there’s the rub:

For in that pause of consciousness what brilliance may come,

When we have shuffled off an inherent insecurity,

Must cause uncertainty —there’s the respect

That makes the calamity of script so life-long.

For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,

The blank page, the impeding notion,

The pangs of creative cessation, the despondency,

The contempt of obligation, and the derailment of the carriage off its axis,

When he himself might his quietus make

With a sharpened quill? Who would fardels bear,

To grunt and toil under a hearty task,

But that the dread of something after surrender,

The tarnished realm, from which no reputation goes unpunished, no will unbroken,

And makes us rather bear those ills we have

Than fly to the comfort of ignorance?

Thus conscience does make heroes of us all,

And thus the native hue of resolution

Is sicklied o’er with the pale cast of panic,

So enterprises of great pitch and moment

With this regard may their currents become straight

And gain thy name of worth.