Whether 'tis nobler for the players, to suffer
The slings and arrows of the WFA binds,
Or to take arms against the sea of enemies
And by opposing them end them? to fire, to shoot---
No more; and by shoot to say we fire
The weapons new, and the thousand natural weaps
That each class is heir to?---'t is a consummation
Devoutly to be wished. to die, to fire;--
To fire, perchance to kill;-- ay there's the rub;
For in that ability of what weapons may come,
When we have shuffled off the normal binds and keys,
Must give us pause; there's the respect
That makes calamity of cyborg's runs so long;
For who would bear the grenades and kamis of time,
The enemy's wrong, the proud borg's contumely,
The pangs of a newb's cries, the shrap's delay,
The insolence of homing, and the spruns
That oldpharts merit of the newbies takes,
When he himself might his alternate take
With a grinning face? who would coders bear,
To grunt and sweat under a weary life,
But that the dread of something bound to mouse2, ---
The undiscover'd weapon, from whose bourn
No newbie returns,--- puzzles the old,
And makes us rather bear those ghey weaps we have,
Than fly to others which we never knew of?
Thus concious makes cowards of coders all;
And thus the native hue of decision
Is sicklied o'er with the pale cl_blend of effects;
And enterprises of button3 and new edicts_t*'s,
With this regard, their weapons turn awry,
And lose the name of homing.-- Beep you know!
The great homing rocket!--- Ghey, in thy orisons
Be all my sins remember'd.
