To be or not to be, that is the question?
In today’s world,
“To go to war or to not go to war”,
that is an even better question-by yours truly!
Should we, the United States of America go into a war in Syria and/or Iraq for that matter, without a single neighboring country with us and/or not a single, so called, free world country helping?
Not on your life!
Not unless all of those politicians with stock in ‘war-machine companies’,
screaming for blood, our blood as well as an enemies, grabing a sword and taking the lead?
What we need is a president with the willpower to fight a war and the wisdom to know when to use a brain over brown!
We already have one!
Obama again faces tug of military action in Syria
For those of you that do not know and those of you that want to know the why?
William Shakespeare –
Not a perfect answer, but an answer?
You’ll get the idea.
To be, or not to be: that is the question:
Whether ’tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,
And by opposing end them?
To die: to sleep;
No more; and by a sleep to say we end
The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to, ’tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish’d. To die, to sleep;
To sleep: perchance to dream: ay, there’s the rub;
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause: there’s the respect
That makes calamity of so long life;
For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
The oppressor’s wrong, the proud man’s contumely,
The pangs of despised love, the law’s delay,
The insolence of office and the spurns
That patient merit of the unworthy takes,
When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare bodkin? who would fardels bear,
To grunt and sweat under a weary life,
But that the dread of something after death,
The undiscover’d country from whose bourn
No traveller returns, puzzles the will
And makes us rather bear those ills we have
Than fly to others that we know not of?
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all;
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o’er with the pale cast of thought,
And enterprises of great pith and moment
With this regard their currents turn awry,
And lose the name of action. – Soft you now!
The fair Ophelia! Nymph, in thy orisons
Be all my sins remember’d.