To yield, or not to yield; that is the question; Whether ’tis wiser that my party bear The jeers and scoffings of the Tory rabble, Or to stand bravely ’gainst their blust’ring onset, And by opposing beat them? To vote; to win; No more; and by a vote to say we end The torture and the thousand natural fears That we are heirs to, ’tis a consummation Devoutly to be wish’d. To vote, to win; To win: perchance to fail; ay, there’s the rub; For in that dread event what woes may come When we are left in thin minority, Must give us pause: there’s the respect That makes calamity of party life; For who would bear Sir Stafford’s taunting smile, Cynic Cecil’s chuckle, country’s contumely, The pangs of sore defeat, the law’s delay, Conservatives in office, and the spurns That fallen power from parasites must take, When I myself can calm commotion’s roar With my well-known talent? Who would office bear, To toil and legislate for thankless men, But that the fear of Tories gaining pow’r, Those owl-tongued peace-disturbers from whose tongues No sound but hate can come, puzzles the will And makes us bear content the ills we have Than risk the presence of a Jingo curse? Thus consequence makes cowards of us all; And thus my native hue of resolution Is sicklied o’er with the pale cast of thought, And my pet project of a Suez Canal, With this regard its current fails to take; Let Northcote take his action. ARAMIS. ――――――――