Yucky Jobs of the Middle Ages

            Although all of the jobs from the middle ages just did not seem appealing, there was one that out shone the rest on just the amount of times I said “ew” while watching the video, that job was the leach collector. I find this job to have no good qualities at all. Leaches are disgusting organisms, which just give me the heeby jeebies when thinking about them. Thinking back to that time, their dress for this job probably wouldn’t be what it is like now. They most likely would not have weighters, or anything substantial to protect their legs. Just imagining the things that you would have to do for this job is what makes me think that it is the worst one of them all.

To Be or Not To Be translation

To be, or not to be: that is the question:

To live or die: that is the question:

Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer

Either to stay on this earth and suffer

The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,

And go through all he hard times

Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,

Or to find another way around them

And by opposing end them? To die: to sleep;

I could just end them, to die; to sleep

No more; and by a sleep to say we end

No more suffering, just death

The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks

The heartache and shocks

That flesh is heir to, 'tis a consummation

That is common with humans, it is a pity

Devoutly to be wish'd. To die, to sleep;

I truly wish. To die, to sleep

To sleep: perchance to dream: ay, there's the rub;

To sleep: and perhaps to dream: that is the true question

For in that sleep of death what dreams may come

Because we dont know what comes after death

When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,

When we finally leave this earth,

Must give us pause: there's the respect

It takes us a moment to find the reason

That makes calamity of so long life;

That we continue on in our human forms

For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,

For who want to live out their lives with all their wrong doings and hardships,

The oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely,

The other thing that is wrong, the man too proud

The pangs of despised love, the law's delay,

The hurt of love gone bad, and having to follow the law

The insolence of office and the spurns

The stupiditiy of government and the peers 

That patient merit of the unworthy takes,

That awards those below you

When he himself might his quietus make

When he just wants to leave this world

With a bare bodkin? who would fardels bear,

By killing himself, who would dare

To grunt and sweat under a weary life,

To grunt and sweat under a tired life,

But that the dread of something after death,

But to fear what comes next

The undiscover'd country from whose bourn

That is unknown to all

No traveller returns, puzzles the will

No body comes back, it is all still questioned

And makes us rather bear those ills we have

And makes us show the wrongs we have done

Than fly to others that we know not of?

Rather than show those of the others

Thus conscience does make cowards of us all;

Thus conscience does make us all scared

And thus the native hue of resolution

And what courage really is 

Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought,

Is looked at with all my thoughts,

And enterprises of great pith and moment

And projects with widely and greatly

With this regard their currents turn awry,

With this regard leave

And lose the name of action. - Soft you now!

And lose what they want to do. – Quiet now!

The fair Ophelia! Nymph, in thy orisons

My beautiful Ophelia! Lady, in your prayers

Be all my sins remember'd.

Remember my sins.

Poetry is hard

I sit in front of my computer screen.

The screen is blank, no words appear on it.

If I do not finish the task for seen,

My teacher says that I just might get hit.

I think and think but nothing comes to mind.

The screen stares back at me with not a word.

I could not find the words to say each line.

Its time I should just pray to the lord.

Right then the thought came into my bright mind,

I’ll write about how I cannot write this.

And as I finish this I finish this I will resign

From writing poems because this is no bliss.

I now know how hard poetry can be,

I will leave it to the poets with a degree.