Читать книгу A Parody Anthology - Wells Carolyn - Страница 6

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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!

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.