To beer, or not to beer, that is the question:
Whether ’tis nobler on the taste buds to suffer
The stings and sorrows of outrageous fermentation,
Or to take arms against a slew of bad brews
And by opposing end them. To cry—to weep,
No more; and by a cry to say we end
The heart-ache and the thousand unnatural flavors
That beer is heir to: ’tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish’d. To cry, to weep;
To weep, perchance to dream—ay, there’s the rub:
For in this state of brews what dreams may come,
When we have shut off the rolling boil,
Must give us pause—there’s the respect
That makes calamity of an unfermented wort.
For who would bear the whips and scorns of buds,
Th’oppressor’s wrong, the other brewer’s contumely,
The pangs of dispriz’d malts, the fermentation’s delay,
The insolence of hops, and the spurns
That patient merit of th’unworthy rakes,
When he himself might his own brew make
With a home brew kit? Who would bear the burden,
To grunt and sweat over a hot kettle,
But that the dread of something after brewing,
The undiscovere’d smells, from whose aromas
None remain unaffected, puzzles the will,
And makes us rather bear those beers we have
Than fly to others that we know not of?
Thus routine doth make cowards of us all,
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o’er with the dullness of familiarity,
And enterprises of great opportunity and moment
With this regard the brewer turns awry
And loses the name of action.
Simply Beer 