To beer, or not to beer: That is the question.
Whether ’tis nobler in the heart to suffer
The slings and arrows of virtuous sobriety,
Or to take up pints against a sea of troubles,
And by imbibing numb them? To drink: to sleep
‘Til four; and by a sleep we say we end
The head-ache and the thousand hungover shocks
That booze must lead to, ’tis a relaxation
Devoutly to be wish’d. To drink, to sleep;
To sleep: perchance to hurl; ay, there’s the rub!
For in that sleep of drink what chunks may blow
When we have chundered out our stomach’s boil
Must give us pause: there’s the respect
That makes us take our rest upon our sides;
For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
The oppressor’s wrong, the proud man’s contumely,
The pangs of despised love, the law’s delay,
The insolence of office and the spurns
That patient merit of the unworthy takes,
When he himself might his quietus make
With shots of vodka? Who would fardels bear,
To grunt and sweat under a sober life,
But that the dread of something after drunk,
The half-remembered party from whose bourn
No self-respect returns, puzzles the will
And makes us rather take the cheque
Than drink another round, then several more?
Thus cowardice makes buzz-kills of us all,
But yet the native hue of resolution
Is oft won over with the ebon pint of stout,
And enterprises fit for Darwin’s scrap-book
With alcohol doth often go awry
And enter into legend.