AFTER SHAKESPEARE

TO wed, or not to wed? That is the question Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer The pangs and arrows of outrageous love Or to take arms against the powerful flame And by oppressing quench it. To wed—to marry— And by a marriage say we end The heartache and the thousand painful shocks Love makes us heir to—'tis a consummation Devoutly to be wished! to wed—to marry— Perchance a scold! aye, there's the rub! For in that wedded life what ills may come When we have shuffled off our single state Must give us serious pause. There's the respect That makes us Bachelors a numerous race. For who would bear the dull unsocial hours Spent by unmarried men, cheered by no smile To sit like hermit at a lonely board In silence? Who would bear the cruel gibes With which the Bachelor is daily teased When he himself might end such heart-felt griefs By wedding some fair maid? Oh, who would live Yawning and staring sadly in the fire Till celibacy becomes a weary life But that the dread of something after wed-lock (That undiscovered state from whose strong chains No captive can get free) puzzles the will And makes us rather choose those ills we have Than fly to others which a wife may bring. Thus caution doth make Bachelors of us all, And thus our natural taste for matrimony Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought. And love adventures of great pith and moment With this regard their currents turn away And lose the name of Wedlock. Anonymous.

TO draw, or not to draw,—that is the question:— Whether 'tis safer in the player to take The awful risk of skinning for a straight, Or, standing pat, to raise 'em all the limit And thus, by bluffing, get in. To draw,—to skin; No more—and by that skin to get a full, Or two pairs, or the fattest bouncing kings That luck is heir to—'tis a consummation Devoutly to be wished. To draw—to skin; To skin! perchance to burst—ay, there's the rub! For in the draw of three what cards may come, When we have shuffled off th' uncertain pack, Must give us pause. There's the respect That makes calamity of a bobtail flush; For who would bear the overwhelming blind, The reckless straddle, the wait on the edge, The insolence of pat hands and the lifts That patient merit of the bluffer takes, When he himself might be much better off By simply passing? Who would trays uphold, And go out on a small progressive raise, But that the dread of something after call— The undiscovered ace-full, to whose strength Such hands must bow, puzzles the will, And makes us rather keep the chips we have Than be curious about the hands we know not of. Thus bluffing does make cowards of us all: And thus the native hue of a four-heart flush Is sicklied with some dark and cussed club, And speculators in a jack-pot's wealth With this regard their interest turn away And lose the right to open. Anonymous.

TO have it out or not. That is the question— Whether 'tis better for the jaws to suffer The pangs and torments of an aching tooth Or to take steel against a host of troubles, And, by extracting them, end them? To pull—to tug!— No more: and by a tug to say we end The toothache and a thousand natural ills The jaw is heir to. 'Tis a consummation Devoutly to be wished! To pull—to tug!— To tug—perchance to break! Ay, there's the rub, For in that wrench what agonies may come When we have half dislodged the stubborn foe, Must give us pause. There's the respect That makes an aching tooth of so long life. For who would bear the whips and stings of pain, The old wife's nostrum, dentist's contumely; The pangs of hope deferred, kind sleep's delay; The insolence of pity, and the spurns, That patient sickness of the healthy takes, When he himself might his quietus make For one poor shilling? Who would fardels bear, To groan and sink beneath a load of pain?— But that the dread of something lodged within The linen-twisted forceps, from whose pangs No jaw at ease returns, puzzles the will, And makes it rather bear the ills it has Than fly to others that it knows not of. Thus dentists do make cowards of us all, And thus the native hue of resolution Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of fear; And many a one, whose courage seeks the door, With this regard his footsteps turns away, Scared at the name of dentist. Anonymous.

WELL, don't cry, my little tiny boy, With hey, ho, the wind and the rain Amuse yourself, and break some toy, For the rain it raineth every day. Alas, for the grass on Papa's estate, With hey, ho, the wind and the rain, He'll have to buy hay at an awful rate, For the rain it raineth every day. Mamma, she can't go out for a drive, With hey, ho, the wind and the rain, How cross she gets about four or five, For the rain it raineth every day. If I were you I'd be off to bed, With hey, ho, the wind and the rain, Or the damp will give you a cold in the head, For the rain it raineth every day. A great while ago this song was done, With hey, ho, the wind and the rain, And I, for one, cannot see it's fun, But the Dyces and the Colliers can—they say. Shirley Brooks.

WITH pretty speech accost both old and young, And speak it trippingly upon the tongue; But if you mouth it with a hoyden laugh, With clumsy ogling and uncomely chaff— As I have oft seen done at fancy fairs, I had as lief a huckster sold my wares, Avoid all so-called beautifying, dear. Oh! it offends me to the soul to hear The things that men among themselves will say Of some soi-disant “beauty of the day," Whose face, when she with cosmetics has cloyed it, Out-Rachels Rachel! pray you, girls, avoid it. Neither be you too tame—but, ere you go, Provide yourselves with sprigs of mistletoe; Offer them coyly to the Roman herd— But don't you suit “the action to the word," For in that very torrent of your passion Remember modesty is still in fashion. Oh, there be ladies whom I've seen hold stalls— Ladies of rank, my dear—to whom befalls Neither the accent nor the gait of ladies; So clumsily made up with Bloom of Cadiz, Powder-rouge—lip-salve—that I've fancied then They were the work of Nature's journeymen. W. S. Gilbert.

WITH a hey! and a hi! and a hey-ho rhyme! Oh, the shepherd lad He is ne'er so glad As when he pipes, in the blossom-time, So rare! While Kate picks by, yet looks not there. So rare! so rare! With a hey! and a hi! and a ho! The grasses curdle where the daisies blow! With a hey! and a hi! and a hey-ho vow! Then he sips her face At the sweetest place— And ho! how white is the hawthorn now!— So rare!— And the daisied world rocks round them there. So rare! so rare! With a hey! and a hi! and a ho! The grasses curdle where the daisies blow! James Whitcomb Riley.

TO trump, or not to trump,—that is the question: Whether 't is better in this case to notice The leads and signals of outraged opponents, Or to force trumps against a suit of diamonds, And by opposing end them? To trump,—to take,— No more; and by that trick to win the lead And after that, return my partner's spades For which he signalled,—'tis a consummation Devoutly to be wished. To trump—to take,— To take! perchance to win! Ay, there's the rub; For if we win this game, what hands may come When we have shuffled up these cards again. Play to the score? ah! yes, there's the defect That makes this Duplicate Whist so much like work. For who would heed the theories of Hoyle, The laws of Pole, the books of Cavendish, The Short-Suit system, Leads American, The Eleven Rule Finesse, The Fourth-best play, The Influence of signals on The Ruff, When he himself this doubtful trick might take With a small two-spot? Who would hesitate, But that the dread of something afterwards, An undiscovered discard or forced lead When playing the return, puzzles the will, And makes us rather lose the tricks we have To win the others that we know not of? Thus Duplicate Whist makes cowards of us all; And thus the native hue of Bumblepuppy Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought. And good whist-players of great skill and judgment, With this regard their formulas defy, And lose the game by ruffing. Carolyn Wells.