William Shakespeare

Is my Wi-Fi working?

To Wi-Fi or not to Wi-Fi, that is the question; Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer The slings and arrows of outrageous buffering, Or to take arms against a sea of cables, And by opposing, end them. To connect, to stream No more—and by a stream, to say we end The heartache and the thousand natural shocks That Wi-Fi is heir to—'tis a consummation Devoutly to be wished. To connect, to stream, To stream, perchance to dream. Ay, there's the rub, For in that connection of Wi-Fi what dreams may come When we have shuffled off this digital coil, Must give us pause. There's the respect That makes calamity of so long a loading time. For who would bear the pings and bleeps of life, The computer's wrong, the proud IT’s contumely, The insolence of office and the spurns That patient merit of the unworthy takes, When he himself might his quietus make With a simple router? Who would fardels bear, To grunt and sweat under a weary signal, But that the dread of something after buffering, The undiscovered data 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 conscience does make cowards of us all; And thus the native hue of resolution Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of a spinning wheel, And enterprise of great pitch and moment With this regard their currents turn awry And lose the name of action.—Soft you now! The fair Ophelia! Nymph, in thy orisons Be all my bandwidth remembered.