To thin beam, or not to thin beam- that is the question:
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The shanks and topspin of outrageous fortune
Or to take arms against a sea of passing shots,
And by opposing end them. To ace- to sleep-
No more; and by a sleep to say we end
The point, and the thousand elbow shocks
That flesh is heir to. 'Tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish'd. To double fault- to weep.
To weep- perchance to scream: ay, there's the breakpoint!
For in that sleep of service change what dreams may come
When we have shuffled off this side of the court,
Must give us pause. There's the respect
That makes a match of so long life.
For who would bear the whips and scorns of tennis,
Th' umpire's wrong, the proud man's contumely,
The pangs of despis'd calls, the point's delay,
The insolence of choosing not to serve, and the spurns
That patient merit of th' unworthy tosses,
When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare scorecard? Who would these ****els bear,
To grunt and sweat on a weary court,
But that the dread of something after set point-
The undiscover'd country, from whose bourn
No comback returns- puzzles the will,
And makes us rather bear those ills we have
Than fly to others that we know not of?
Thus conscience does make tennis freaks of us all,
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of rainstorms,
And enterprises of great pith and moment
With this regard their currents turn awry
And lose the score of the action.- Soft you now!
The fair boxbeam!- midesize, in thy orisons
Be all my sins rememb'red.