CLINTON:
"To be weirdly hot, or weird and not -- that is the question;
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer
the stares and snark of outrageous baristas
Or to take th' maid of a burning bar
and with donated clothes, house her. A hotel, to sleep
and snore (and by sleep I mean to sleep, you pervs)
whilst for I the sweats and the thousand sleepless shocks
that flesh is heir to -- 'tis a consummation
devoutly to be ship'd, though the mods, though Jeph --
The mods, perchance to warn, Ay, there's the rub (heh, I said rub) --
For in that sleep of Brun what dreams may come
When she hath read off phone-number'd slip
Must give me a call. There's the prospect
that makes calamity of so long a night.
For who would bear the whips and scorns of baristas,
the Hannelore's squee, the Dora's lust,
the pangs of threaten'd flame, the coffee spiders.
When he himself might a phone call make
to th' room of Brun?
... but that the dread of rejection, the unfulfill'd country from whose bourn
no traveler escapes, puzzles the will
And makes me rather bear those ills I have
while forum ships what it knows not of?
Thus conscience doth make cowards of us all,
And thus the native hue of Resolution
is sicklied o'er as of pale indie boy
And enterprises of great pith and moment
with this regard their currents turn away
And lose a chance at action. Read you now,
Brun, my phone number, and in thy shower
use the proper waterproof covering."