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Literature Text
To sleep, or not to sleep: that is the question:
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer
Through class the drooping eyes, the weary neck,
Or to take action against these
And by skipping class end them? To die: to sleep;
No more; And by sleep to say we attempt an end
At rehearsals and the piles of work
That college is heir to, 'tis a consummation
Devoutly wish'd by over-achievers. To die. To sleep;
To sleep: perchance to stay awake in Philosophy! Ay, that is the rub;
For in that uncomfortable nap on my desk
When no lesson passes through my ears,
(When I have completed the reading at 1 in the morning,)
Must give us pause: there's the problem
That turns my eyes from white to a grapefruit pink (occasionally demon red)
For who would bear the incoherent thoughts of the half-asleep
The confusion of disjointed thoughts, the inability to concentrate
The aching eyelashes, the desire for more than a chair.
The pining of bed and pillow
That even the liveliest student has not the strength to deny
(especially) When he himself might his nap take
With a pair of cozy sweats? Who would choose
To moan and complain from class through hall
But that the dread of waking up from dormancy
The dreams you'd forget, the nightmares you'd remember
No human prefers to be asleep, it puzzles the will
And makes us long for that which he have not in the moment
Then fly to my bed! And sink soft therein... Only to have
My conscience strain at my brain and keep me from the brink of rest
And thus, the vicious duties of day turn a simple cat nap
Into something sicklied and soiled with the pale cast of thought,
And makes the roommate, boyfriend, mother sympathize the moment
With their regards-- and often demands
And make me loose my sleepy action-- Soft you, now!
The exciting noises, a song to pull me from my comforter
Be all my forsaken hours of sleep rememb'red
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer
Through class the drooping eyes, the weary neck,
Or to take action against these
And by skipping class end them? To die: to sleep;
No more; And by sleep to say we attempt an end
At rehearsals and the piles of work
That college is heir to, 'tis a consummation
Devoutly wish'd by over-achievers. To die. To sleep;
To sleep: perchance to stay awake in Philosophy! Ay, that is the rub;
For in that uncomfortable nap on my desk
When no lesson passes through my ears,
(When I have completed the reading at 1 in the morning,)
Must give us pause: there's the problem
That turns my eyes from white to a grapefruit pink (occasionally demon red)
For who would bear the incoherent thoughts of the half-asleep
The confusion of disjointed thoughts, the inability to concentrate
The aching eyelashes, the desire for more than a chair.
The pining of bed and pillow
That even the liveliest student has not the strength to deny
(especially) When he himself might his nap take
With a pair of cozy sweats? Who would choose
To moan and complain from class through hall
But that the dread of waking up from dormancy
The dreams you'd forget, the nightmares you'd remember
No human prefers to be asleep, it puzzles the will
And makes us long for that which he have not in the moment
Then fly to my bed! And sink soft therein... Only to have
My conscience strain at my brain and keep me from the brink of rest
And thus, the vicious duties of day turn a simple cat nap
Into something sicklied and soiled with the pale cast of thought,
And makes the roommate, boyfriend, mother sympathize the moment
With their regards-- and often demands
And make me loose my sleepy action-- Soft you, now!
The exciting noises, a song to pull me from my comforter
Be all my forsaken hours of sleep rememb'red
![[OPEN] (4) Asian Aesthetics](https://images-wixmp-ed30a86b8c4ca887773594c2.wixmp.com/f/8ffd564a-85be-4695-b202-11df82f3e726/dgqkhua-9419f944-9223-467c-81c4-9e9a616edb0c.jpg/v1/fit/w_375,h_656,q_70,strp/_open___4__asian_aesthetics_by_trunkson1_dgqkhua-375w.jpg?token=eyJ0eXAiOiJKV1QiLCJhbGciOiJIUzI1NiJ9.eyJzdWIiOiJ1cm46YXBwOjdlMGQxODg5ODIyNjQzNzNhNWYwZDQxNWVhMGQyNmUwIiwiaXNzIjoidXJuOmFwcDo3ZTBkMTg4OTgyMjY0MzczYTVmMGQ0MTVlYTBkMjZlMCIsIm9iaiI6W1t7ImhlaWdodCI6Ijw9MTM0NCIsInBhdGgiOiJcL2ZcLzhmZmQ1NjRhLTg1YmUtNDY5NS1iMjAyLTExZGY4MmYzZTcyNlwvZGdxa2h1YS05NDE5Zjk0NC05MjIzLTQ2N2MtODFjNC05ZTlhNjE2ZWRiMGMuanBnIiwid2lkdGgiOiI8PTc2OCJ9XV0sImF1ZCI6WyJ1cm46c2VydmljZTppbWFnZS5vcGVyYXRpb25zIl19.LUwR7_mSVVrp-XAXXNM6kyuYKqm4OSoyOLR08-keC8I)
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.
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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