To install- or not to install, that is the question:
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The sweats and mold of outrageous dews,
Or to take arms against a sea of humidity
And by opposing end it. To pass out from heat—to sleep,
No more; and by a sleep to say we end
The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to: 'tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish'd. To pass out, to sleep;
To sleep, perchance to lie sweating on the sheets—ay, there's the rub:
For in that sleep of dews what dreams may come,
When we have sweated off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause—there's the respect
That makes calamity of so long life.
For who would bear the chafing and stink of dews,
Th'oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely,
The pangs of dispritz'd love, the AC's delay,
The insolence of central air, and the spurns
That patient merit of th'unworthy takes,
When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare bodkin? Who would window unit bear,
To grunt and lift from the basement for a weary wife,
But that the dread of something after FROPA,
The undiscovere'd country, from whose frosty air
No traveller returns without 14 day quarantine, puzzles the will,
And makes us rather bear those ills we have
Than fly to others that we know not of?
Thus sore back does make cowards of us all,
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of heat exhaustion,
And enterprises of great pitch and moment
With this regard their currents turn awry
And lose the name of action.