When he himself might his quietus make with a bare bodkin

To bidet, or not to bidet, that is the question:

Whether ’tis nobler in the hind to suffer

The springs and narrows of outrageous fortune,

Or to take legs against a sea of bubbles

And by opposing (ahem) end them. To sigh — to bleed,

No more; and with a sweep to say we end

The heartburn of the bowels and hanging bollocks

That flesh is heir to: ’tis a consummation

Devoutly to be swish’d. A thigh, to sweep;

To sweep, perchance to gleam — ay, there’s the rub:

For in that underneath what streams may come,

When we have shuffled off this mortal coiler,

Must give huzzahs — there’s the reject

That makes smell amity of so loose strife.