To punt, or not to punt, aye that is the question
Whether ‘tis nobler in mind to suffer
The twists and turns of a river’s design
Or to take direction against the tide
And by opposing it, to punt, to ride
No more—and by a punt to say a float
The depths, and the thousand natural strokes
That a boat is heir to. ‘Tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wished. To punt, to ride
To ride, perchance to sail, aye, there’s the rub
For in that sail of a punt, what ride may come
When we have glided off this river
Must give us pause. There’s the respect
That makes an adventure of so long a life.
For who would bear the currents and tides of the sea
Th’ ebb’s wrong, the strong punter struggles
The ride of the river, the tide’s destiny
The labor of the job and the spurns
That patient merit of th’ punter takes
When he himself might his quietus make
With a paddle, a stick? Who would a boat bear,
To toil and sweat under a shining sun,
But that energy of something after a punt
The undiscovered port, from whose bourn
No traveller returns empty-stomached, puzzles the will,
And makes us agreeable to bear those labors we have
But question to fly to other ports that we know not of.
Thus conscience does make punters of us all,
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is brightened with the pale cast of thought,
And enterprise of great pitch and moment
With this regard their currents turn awry
And ride the river in the name of action. -- Soft you now,
The fair Punter! -- Joyful, in thy boater
Be all my punts remembered.
