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To be, or not to be: that is the question:
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,
And by opposing end them? To die: to sleep;
No more; and by a sleep to say we end
The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to, 'tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish'd. To die, to sleep;
To sleep: perchance to dream: ay, there's the rub;
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
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 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 a bare bodkin? who would fardels bear,
To grunt and sweat under a weary life,
But that the dread of something after death,
The undiscover'd country from whose bourn
No traveller 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 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 sins remember'd.
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'Tis to pee, not sodomy: heft not that erection!
Never this knobber a hind, to stuff her,
As one grimly narrows his courageous poor bum.
(Has a short arm again been seen to double?)
And nigh up-hose his end then: that eye, petite, to bore.
And, my, most deep inside that end,
A fart breaks, as when some men's fat old cocks
The wretch was host to. (In some nations, he
doubtless has been "switched".) To lie, those creeps:
They seek a chance to ream... hey, theirs are stubs.
Force that slippery pest, that deems to cum,
They stuff that shriveled duff, the portal spoiled...
By lust-driven hogs. Where are regrets
At inhumanity, a colon's strife?
That forlorn few are ripped and torn at times:
If pressures on, the prowed men come unduly!
A tangled glove was thrown off, away.
To innocent orifice, too, had turned
That latent ferret some would forsake.
As he, this elf a white-ish tush takes, to put a rod in.
Who would his farthole dare?
Ahh, a drunken sweaty queer, he might,
Butt how red from humpin', out of breath;
Under his covers things do hump, see, from morn;
(too well travelled, that stern) guzzlin' swill,
To take a tattered, careless fool to shaft,
Then to spy some other he'll no doubt shove!
Such can shunt us, impel us toward a fall,
And thus we may give a few no absolution:
The sick, queer whores, with failed caste apart.
If those men rise, full of dicks and potent;
Ah, that hard, all who run them high
Will be ashamed of actions.
Soft, wee now? (We dare not feel ya)
Limp, not oft arisen?
In no guy spin your member!
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