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confused..to cute profile or not to cute profile..?
..that is the inquiry..
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous cuteness,
Or to take arms against a sea of ugliness,
And by opposing end them? To be anamorphic;
No more; and by anamorphosis to say we end
The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks
That thy is heir to, 'tis a consummation
Devoutly not to be wish'd. To be disfigured;
To be grimaced: perchance to dream: ay, there's the rub;
For in that wryness of death what dreams may come
When we have shuffled off this mortal beauty,
Must give us pause: there's the respect
That makes calamity of so long life;
For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
The hideous' wrong, the eyesore's contumely,
The pangs of ultimate adoration, the charm's delay,
The insolence of office and the spurns
That patient merit of the unworthy takes,
When he himself might his disfigurement make
With a bare bodkin? who would fardels bear,
To grunt and sweat under a glamorous life,
But that the dread of something after disfigurement,
The undiscover'd country from whose bourn
No traveller returns, puzzles the will
And makes us rather bear the elegance we have
Than fly to others that we know not of?
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all;
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought,
And enterprises of great pith and moment
With this regard their currents turn awry,
And lose the name of action. - Soft you now!
The fair Ophelia! Nymph, in thy orisons
Be all my cuteness remember'd.
..that is the inquiry..
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous cuteness,
Or to take arms against a sea of ugliness,
And by opposing end them? To be anamorphic;
No more; and by anamorphosis to say we end
The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks
That thy is heir to, 'tis a consummation
Devoutly not to be wish'd. To be disfigured;
To be grimaced: perchance to dream: ay, there's the rub;
For in that wryness of death what dreams may come
When we have shuffled off this mortal beauty,
Must give us pause: there's the respect
That makes calamity of so long life;
For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
The hideous' wrong, the eyesore's contumely,
The pangs of ultimate adoration, the charm's delay,
The insolence of office and the spurns
That patient merit of the unworthy takes,
When he himself might his disfigurement make
With a bare bodkin? who would fardels bear,
To grunt and sweat under a glamorous life,
But that the dread of something after disfigurement,
The undiscover'd country from whose bourn
No traveller returns, puzzles the will
And makes us rather bear the elegance we have
Than fly to others that we know not of?
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all;
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought,
And enterprises of great pith and moment
With this regard their currents turn awry,
And lose the name of action. - Soft you now!
The fair Ophelia! Nymph, in thy orisons
Be all my cuteness remember'd.
