Hamlet Redocs

MD or not MD, that is the dilemma.
Whether ’tis easier on the butt to suffer
The hours and minutes of outrageous lecture.
Or to take a stand against a sea of schedules
And by leaving, end them? To sit, to study —
No more; and by no study to say we end
The headache and the thousand unnatural exams
This flesh is heir to — ’tis a palliation
Much to be desired. To sit, to study —
To study, perchance to learn: oh, there’s the rub.
For in this study of life what learning may come
When we have bubbled in this meager sheet,
Must give us Pass. There’s the respect
That makes Doctors out of B.A.’s,  B.S.’s.

For who would bear the classes of so long a time,
The lecturer’s wrong, the proud prof’s disdain,
The pangs of borrowed money, the sleep’s delay,
The insolence of course directors and the stench
Of formaldehyde and rotten flesh,
When he himself his dissection make
On a cold cadaver? Who would gladly bear
To moan and sweat under a bleary light,
But for the hope of something here after;
The Doctorate of Medicine, with whose bestowal
All good things come. Piques the will,
And makes us rather bear the ills we have
Than to cast off eighteen years of education.

But compulsion makes cowards of a few,
And thus the nature of these students
Is stricken over with the murky haze of worry,
And ventures of meager consequence
In this regard their thoughts spin awry,
And lose the name of reason.

I want you now, the fair Honors!
Nymph, in thy transcriptions
Be all my virtues remembered.
Kurt Biehl
©1986
©2017 revision