William Shakespeare

برنامه نویسی بلدی

To code, or not to code, that is the question: Whether 'tis nobler in the mind, to suffer The pains and frustrations of a buggy program, Or to take arms against a sea of errors, And by troubleshooting, end them? To code, to sleep, No more; and by a sleep, to say we end The heart-ache, and the thousand natural bugs That code is heir to? 'Tis a consummation Devoutly to be wished. To code, to debug, To debug, perchance to dream; ay, there's the rub, For in that coding dream what bugs may come, When we have shuffled off this mortal typing, Must give us pause. There's the respect That makes calamity of so long writing. For who would bear the whips and scorns of syntax errors, Th' oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely, The pangs of unresolved merges, the spur, The slow and frustrating progress of debugging, The insolence of bug reports, and the spurns That patient coders of th' unworthy take, When they themselves might their programs make With a bare bodkin? Who would fardels bear, To grunt and sweat under a weary coding, But that the dread of something after coding, The undiscovered error from whose bourn No coder returns, puzzles the will And makes us rather bear those bugs we have Than fly to others that we know not of? Thus conscience does make coders of us all; And thus the native hue of resolution Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of bugs, And enterprises of great pitch and moment With this regard their coding turn awry, And lose the name of action. Soft you now! The fair Ophelia! Nymph, in thy orisons Be all my bugs remembered.