Did some more digging and weeding on the plot of clay, after some thought, naturally,
"To dig or not to dig – that is the question:
Whether 'tis easier on the back to suffer
The stings and scratches of outrageous brambles,
Or to take scythes against a sea of nettles
And, by opposing, end them. To sigh, to sweat
A lot more – and by sweating to say we end
The heartache and the thousand natural jibes
That laziness is heir to – ‘tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wished. To die, to sleep
To sleep, perchance to make a planting plan. Ay, there's the rub,
For in that sleep of winter what dreams may come,
When we have shuffled off the muddy plot,
Must give us pause. There's the respect
That makes calamity of so long left digging.
For who would bear the whips and scorns of t'committee,
Th’ oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely,
The pangs of despised weediness, the hoe's delay,
The insolence of thistles, and the nettles
That patient goading the workshy take,
When he himself might his excuses make
With a bare-faced cheek? Who would guilt bear,
To grunt and sweat on a weary 'lotment,
But that the dread of something at the end,
The undiscovered country after whose bourn
All slugs are safe, puzzles the keen
And makes us rather bear those weeds we have
Than fly to other 'lotments that we know not of?
Thus laziness does make cowards of us all,
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of dissembling,
And enterprises of great pitch and moment
With this regard their plans turn awry,
And lose the name of action.—Soft you now!
The fair Roundup! Answer my orisons
See all my weeds dismembered."
So after mulling it all over, I dug a couple more beds.
Original idea by Bill Shakespeare
