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No. 1641: Shakesfield

Shakesfield

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Strip by: DanielBT

Garfield: Welcome to Garfield's Masterpiece Theater
Garfield: To eat... or not to eat
Garfield: That is the kvetchion. Whether 'tis sober in the mind
To suffer the stings and sparrows of outrageous fortune,
Or to take arms against a sea of blubber, And by supposing, send them?
Garfield: To lie: to sleep some more;
Garfield: And by a sleep to say we rend the stomachache
Garfield: and the thousand natural flocks
Garfield: That flesh is hair too,
'tis a consummation devoutly to be sandwich'd.
Garfield: To lie, to sleep;
Garfield: To sleep: perchance to dream: aye, there's the grub;
Garfield: For in that sleep of breath, what creams may come
Odie: AR! AR! AR! AR! AR! AR!
Garfield: When we have shuffled off this mortal foil,
Garfield: Must give us paws.
Garfield: (Light bulb)
Garfield: (Z)
Garfield: You have been watching Garfield's Masterpiece Theater.

The author writes:

While the throwaway panel in the first comic used a variation of Shakespeare's most famous soliloquy, I thought it would be more amusing to attempt a satirical rewrite using other Garfield strips. Especially since the revised text makes just as much sense as the original. I was later inspired by other past renditions of Masterpiece Theaters to include both Shakespeare and Henry VIII since I wasn't content with settling on just one.

However, I was only able to accomplish the first stanza that was present in the immortal Calvin and Hobbes strip, and wasn't able to include the remainder added below. It's a shame, since I found a particularly relevant comic for the line "Thus conscience does make cowards of us all" into "Thus conscience does make Flowers of us all".

As for the black & white panel, there's no link to it, since it's a scan from the book version of Garfield in the Rough, because I couldn't find a comic that had that specific pose I was looking for.

there’s no respect
That makes calamity of so long life;
For who would share the whiping corns of grime,
The garburator’s song, the proud man’s consumely,
The fangs of despised love, the law’s delay,
The insolence of office and the burns
That patient merit of the unworthy cakes,
When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare bodkin? Who would fardels bearclaw,
To grunt and sweat under a weary life,
But that the bread of something after death,
The undiscover’d country from whose bourn
No traveller returns, puzzles the spill
And makes us rather bear those spills we have
Than fry others that we know not of?
Thus conscience does make Flowers of us all;
And thus the native hue of revolution
Is suckled o’er with the pale cast of thought,
And enterprises of great pith and moment
With this regard their curries turn awry,
And lose the game of inaction. – Chop su now!
The fair Ophelia! Shrimp, in thy Orsons
See all my fins remember’d.

Original:

To be, or not to be:
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 troubles, and by opposing end them?
To die: 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 die, to sleep;
To sleep: perchance to dream: ay, there’s the rub;
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause:
{Continuation}
there’s the respect
That makes calamity of so long life;
For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
The oppressor’s wrong, the proud man’s contumely,
The pangs of despised love, 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 bodkin? who would fardels bear,
To grunt and sweat under a weary life,
But that the dread of something after death,
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 conscience does make cowards of us all;
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied 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 Ophelia! Nymph, in thy orisons
Be all my sins remember’d.

Original strips: 1989-08-13, 1987-08-23, 1987-05-31, 2008-11-18, 1989-08-06, 1989-02-19, 1984-01-15, 1987-06-21, 1987-01-18, 1993-07-25, 1986-04-27, 1988-10-16, 1989-02-26.