To fart, or not to fart: that is the question:
Whether 'tis nobler in the butt to suffer
The toots and sputters of outrageous odor,
Or to take arms against a sea of stenches,
And by opposing stifle them? To fart: to toot;
No more; and by a toot to say we end
The gut-ache and the thousand natural blasts
Ass flesh is heir to, 'tis a consummation
Devoutly to be sniff'd. To fart, to toot;
To toot: perchance to stink: ay, there's the rub;
For in that stink of death what steams may come
When we have sharted off this mortal soil,
Must give us pause: there's the stench
That makes calamity of so long wind;
For who would bear the whips and cracks of gas,
The oppressor's wrong, the proud man's cramping,
The pangs of suppressed fumes, the butt's delay,
The insolence of gasses and the churns
That patient merit of the unseemly quakes,
When he his butt might much quieter make
With a bare butthole? who would farting bear,
To grunt and sweat under a weary arse,
But that the dread of smelling worse than death,
The undiscover'd odor from whose whiff
No traveller returns, repulses the will
And makes us rather bear those pangs we have
Than fly to stenches that we know not of?
Thus embarrassment makes cowards of us all;
And thus the native hue of our own faces
Are sicklied o'er with the green cast of nausea,
And enterprises of great sniff and torment
With this regard air currents turn awry,
And gain the stink of methane.--Soft you now!
The fair Ophelia! Nymph, in thy countenance
Be all my farts remember'd.
