The Tragedy of W, Prince of Crawford

Here's a snippet from the ecalectic summer reading list of our Prince-turned-King:

To bomb, or not to bomb: 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 Ayatollahs,
And by opposing end them? To bomb: to kill;
No more; and by a killing to say we pre-empt
The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to, 'tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish'd. To bomb, to kill;
To kill: perchance to save: ay, there's the rub;
For in that killing of Muslims what salvation may come
When we have shuffled off this mortal oil,
Must give us pause: there's the respect
That makes calamity of so long life;
For who would bear the whips and scorns of Saddam,
Osama's wrong, the neocon's contumely,
The pangs of despised Judah, 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 bombing? who would OPEC bear,
To grunt and sweat under a weary life,
But that the dread of something after Babylon,
The undiscover'd country from whose bourn
No traveller returns, puzzles the will
And makes us rather bear those ills we have
Than fly to others that we know not of?
Thus prudence does make cowards of us all;
And thus the native hue of UN resolutions
Sicklies 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--Soft you now!
The fair Condoleezza! Nymph, in thy orisons
Be all my sins remember'd.