OBAMA: To bomb, or not to bomb--that is the question:
Whether 'tis nobler in the press to suffer
The accusations of outrageous inconsistency
Or to send a shot across the bow of Syria
And by shooting, make Assad "stop doing it."
'Tis a consummation devoutly to be wished.
But to bomb and then perhaps to bomb again? Ay, there's the rub,
For in that careless act what consequences may come
When we have shuffled off Assad's mortal coil,
Must give us pause.
For who would bear the whips and scorns of talking heads,
Th' oppressor's wrong, Iran's contumely,
The pangs of despised journalistic love, the law's delay,
The insolence of others in office, and the spurns
That patient presidents merit of th' unworthy Republicans,
When he himself, acting alone, might his quietus make
With a few dozen Tomahawks?
But that the dread of something after bombing,
The undiscovered war, from whose wreckage
No President or reputation returns intact, 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 enterprise of great pitch and moment
With this regard their currents turn awry
And lose the name of action. -- Soft you now,
The fair Biden! -- Veep, in thy communal orisons
Let all my sins be forgotten.