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 heartache and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to, ‘tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish’d. To die, 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 dispriz’d 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 traveler returns, puzzles the will,
And makes us rather bear those ills we have
Than fly to others that we know not of?
Thus conscious 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.

William Shakespeare, 1603

To bomb or not to bomb: that is the question:
Whether ‘tis nobler in the end to suffer
The threats and lies of outrageous madmen,
Or to take arms against a latent evil,
And by opposing depose him? To kill: to reap;
No more; and by a reap to say we prevent
The terror and the million possible deaths
That region seems heir to, ‘tis a reformation
Devoutly to be soug’t. To kill, to reap;
To reap, perchance to glean: Ay, there’s the rub;
For in our reap of death what gleanings may come
When we have scalpel’d off this human boil,
Must give us pause. There’s the defect
That allowed the travesty of such a reign;
For what world would bear the quips and scoffs of slime,
The oppressive wrongs, the proud king’s palaces,
Among throngs of unfed children, justice’s delay.
The arrogance of this offal, and the wounds
For him his imprisoned population takes
When we ourselves might its terminus make
With a spare warhead? Why our leaders bear,
To try and speak with this soulless blight,
Save the dread of some worse arising,
The unreleas’d populace that once released
No containment remains, induces a chill,
And makes us work this lunatic we have
Than move to chaos we know not of?
Thus fear can make diplomats of us all;
And thus our former cheer of coalition
Is trickly’d sour from the stale cask of doubt,
And battle plans of fist and torrent
With this concern may set the goal aside,
And miss the call to action.

Jonathan Calt Harris, 2003