Whether ’tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous messages,
Or to return the favor with a slew of sausages,
And by overwhelming end them? To delete: to trash;
No more; and by an ignore to say we end
The plague of loons and the thousand natural nut-cases
That Yahoo is heir to, ’tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish’d. To delete, to trash;
To ignore: perchance to forget: ay, there’s the rub;
For in that deleting and trashing what gems may be lost
When we have shuffled off this ‘interesting’ coil,
Must give us pause: there’s the curiosity
That hopes for publication of so humorous life;
For who would bear the whips and scorns of trolls,
The idiot’s wackiness, the silly man’s contumely,
The offers of unwanted love, the technical delay,
The ignorance of office and the spurns
That patient merit of the unworthy takes,
When she herself might her fortune make
With a Booker Prize-winning book? who would fardels bear,
To grin and chuckle under a lively four weeks,
But that the expectancy of something afterwards,
The cyber country to whose bourn
the next victim will soon arrive, amuses the will
And makes us rather enjoy those ills we have
And cheer others that have not yet as suffered.
Thus craziness does make cohorts of us all;
And thus the native hue of entertainment
Is added o’er with the rosy cast of merriment,
And enterprises of great pith and moment
With this regard their currents turn awry,
And gain the name of hilarity. – Soft you now!
I’m not the fair Ophelia! Nonsense-writer, in Will’s own words
But be all mine sins remember’d.