HAMLET's
SOLILOQUY
,
Imitated
.
By
the
Same
.
TO
print
,
or
not
to
print
—
that
is
the
question
.
Whether
'tis
better
in
a
trunk
to
bury
The
quirks
and
crotchets
of
outrageous
Fancy
,
Or
send
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
frenzy
—
'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
.
There's
the
respect
that
makes
Th'
unwilling
poet
keep
his
piece
nine
years
.
For
who
would
bear
th'
impatient
thirst
of
fame
,
The
pride
of
conscious
merit
,
and
'bove
all
,
The
tedious
importunity
of
friends
,
When
as
himself
might
his
quietus
make
With
a
bare
inkhorn
?
Who
would
fardles
bear
?
To
groan
and
sweat
under
a
load
of
wit
?
But
that
the
tread
of
steep
Parnassus'
hill
,
That
undiscover'd
country
,
with
whose
bays
Few
travellers
return
,
puzzles
the
will
,
And
makes
us
rather
bear
to
live
unknown
,
Than
run
the
hazard
to
be
known
,
and
damn'd
.
Thus
critics
do
make
cowards
of
us
all
.
And
thus
the
healthful
face
of
many
a
poem
Is
sickly'd
o'er
with
a
pale
manuscript
;
And
enterprizers
of
great
fire
and
spirit
,
With
this
regard
from
DODSLEY
turn
away
,
And
lose
the
name
of
Authors
.