To smoke, or not to smoke: Hemp is the question.
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind
to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
or to take up bongs a gainst this sea of troubles,
and by smoking, end them.
To get high, to fly, forever-
and by this high to say we end the heartache
and the thousand natural shocks that the brain is heir to!
'Tis a wad of mojo, devoutly to be inhaled.
To get high, to fly, to fly...
purchance to dream: ay there's the rub
for in that puff of smoke, what dreams may come
when we have shuffled off this sober coil must give us pause.
There's the respect that makes happiness of so long life:
For who will bear the dope and joints of time,
the dealer's bong, the proudman's plant,
the joys of an earthly love, the law's stupidity,
the insolence of office and the highs that patient merit of the worthy takes.
Why, he himself might his brainwaves take with a flaming plant.
Who will fardels bear to pu ff and smoke under any life,
but that the dread of something after soberness.
That all discovered country from whose born, most travellers return,
puzzles the will, and makes some rather bear no smoke at all,
than fly to freedom they know not of.
Thus, the law does make criminals of us all
and thus the native hue of resolution is sicklied o'er
with the pale cast of rules and enterprises of great pitch and moment.
With this regard, thier currents turn away,
and lose the name of action