To Check

To check, or not to check: that is the question:
Whether ’tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous continuity,
Or to take tapes down off the shelves of storage
And by reviewing, know then? To check: to fix;
Plot flaws; and by a rewrite may we end
The bloopers and the thousand natural goofs
That scripts are heir to, ’tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish’d. To check, to fix;
To fix: and thus get stuck: ay, there’s the rub;
For in that fix of plots what snags may come
When we have writ us into this mortal corner,
Must give us pause: there’s the respect
That makes calamity of so long series;
For who would bear the whips and scorns of gaffes,
Lady Wolfsbane’s wrong, the proud Thoin’s contumely,
The pangs of despised ploys, the script’s delay,
The insolence of Bronzers and the spurns
That counsel recut of the unworthy takes,
When he himself might his quietus make
With a bald whopper? who would critics bear,
To grunt and sweat under a weary life,
But that the dread of something after Warner’s,
The undiscover’d network from whose bourn
No program 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 rewrites of us all;
And thus the native hue of creativity
Is sicklied o’er with the pale lack of thought,
And enterprises of great pith and moment
With disregard their currents turn awry,
And lose the name of action.–Soft you now!
The fair Marti ! Nymph, in thy originals
Be all my sins remember’d.
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