To wed, or not to wed――That is the question: Whether ’tis happier in the mind to stifle The heats and tumults of outrageous passion, Or with some prudent fair in solemn contract Of matrimony join――to have――to hold―― No more――and by that have to say we end The heartache, and a thousand love-sick pangs Of celibacy――’twere a consummation Devoutly to be wish’d――in nuptial band To join till death dissolves.――Ay, there’s the rub; For in that space what dull remorse may come, When we have ta’en our solemn leave of liberty, Must give us pause――There’s the respect That slacks our speed in suing for a change. Else――who would bear the scorns and sneers which bachelors When aged feel, the pains and flatt’ring fevers Which each new face must give to roving fancy, When he might rid himself at once of all By a bare Yes. Who would with patience bear To fret and linger out a single life, But that the dread of something yet untry’d, Some hazard in a state from whose strict bond Death only can release, puzzles the will, And makes us rather chuse those ills we have, Than fly to others which we fancy greater? This last reflection makes us slow and wary, Filling the dubious mind with dreadful thoughts Of curtain lectures, jealousies, and cares Extravagantly great, entail’d on wedlock, Which to avoid the lover checks his passion, And, miserable, dies a _bachelor_. T. C――――BRE. The New Lady’s Magazine_, March, 1786. ―――――――― To woo, or not to woo――that is the question: Whether ’tis wiser in a man to suffer The screws and pinches of a straiten’d fortune, Or to take arms against some rich widow’s suitors, And, by opposing, beat them. To woo――to wed: No more:――and by a wedding to say we silence The creditor, and thousand barking pests That snap at poor men,――though the consummation Were little to be wished. To woo;――to wed:―― To wed――perchance be henpeck’d!――There’s the rub! For in that unison what jars may come When we have shuffled on the fatal yoke, Must give us pause. There’s the respect That makes our celibacy last so long; For who would bear the plagues of poverty, The fair’s neglect, the coxcomb’s contumely, The dearth of dinner, and the mournful waste That active Time in galligaskins wears, When he himself might his quietus make With a gold ring? Who’d live a subaltern, To drill and dress under a martinet? But that the dread of something after marriage, That knot indissoluble, from whose noose No sufferer can be freed, puzzles the will, And makes us rather bear our own mishaps, Than fly to others that a wife would bring! For women do make noodles of us all; And thus, the bare design of a flirtation Is strangled by the terror of a match, And many a pleasant and free hearted youth, With this regard his courtship turns awry, And shuns the name of husband.