From “_Posthumous Parodies and other Pieces_, composed by several of our MOST CELEBRATED POETS, but _not_ published in any former edition of their works.” London, John Miller, 1814. ―――――――― To wed, or not to wed? That is the question. Whether it is advisable to bear The dull privations of a single life, Or marry, and in wedlock seek relief From many woes? To desperately woo Some charming woman decked with seraph lips And eyes that speak an ocean-stream of love? To marry her? It is a consummation Devoutly to be wished; but where’s the chance? To wed――to set up an establishment And have “a lot of bairns?” Ay, there’s the rub; For it may be I shall not have the means To do my duty to them all, and leave My mortal reckoning; bequeathing merit. Hence reasoning makes me pause, and show respect That dates celibacy a lengthy term; For how could I, chief party to a deed In what is promised, faithfully and true, A constant, generous, and a manly aid, Fulfil my trust, unless I could afford it? I’d like to wed, for who would single be, Or snore in solitude the livelong night, But that the fear of curtain lectures, and A yearly levy of “incumbrances” (As heathen, churlish men their offspring call), Perplexes me, and makes me rather bear The ills I have than fly to those unknown. ANONYMOUS. From W. A. Clouston’s _Literary Curiosities and Eccentricities_. ―――――――― Marry, or not to marry? that is the question―― Whether ’tis nobler in the mind to suffer The sullen silence of these cob-webbed rooms Or seek in festive halls some cheerful dame, And, by uniting, end it?――to live alone No more: and by marrying say we end The heartache, and the thousand make-shifts Bach’lors are heirs to; ’tis a consummation Devoutly to be wished. To marry to live In peace! Perchance in war; ay, there’s the rub; For in the marriage state what ills may come, When we have shuffled off our liberty, Must give us pause――there’s the respect, That makes us dread the bonds of wedlock, For who could bear the noise of scolding wives, The fits of spleen, th’ extravagance of dress, The thirst for plays, for concerts and for balls, The insolence of the servants, and the spurns That patient husbands from their consorts take When he himself might his quietus gain By living single. Who would wish to hear The jeering name of bachelor, But that the dread of something after marriage (Ah, that vast expenditure of income, The tongue call scarcely tell) puzzles the will, And makes us rather choose the single life, Then go to jail for debts we know not of―― Economy thus makes bachelors of us still; And thus our melancholy resolution Is still increased upon more serious thought. From Geo. Wentworth’s _Poetical Note Book_, London, 1824. ――――――――