HAMLET         Now whether it be

Bestial oblivion or some craven scruple

Of thinking too precisely on th’event

(A thought which quartered hath but one part wisdom

And ever three parts coward) I do not know

Why yet I live to say this thing’s to do,

Sith I have cause and will and strength and means

To do’t.            (4.4.38-45)

Hamlet’s both matter-of-factly self-aware and bitterly self-excoriating here. The whole delay thing? Now whether it be bestial oblivion or some craven scruple of thinking too precisely on th’event—whether it’s because I’m just an animal, incapable of remembering anything, happier to forget, or else a kind of cowardly over-thinking, over-scrupulousness, endlessly replaying possible scenarios and outcomes (a thought which quartered hath but one part wisdom and ever three parts coward—when you look at it like that, it’s only a very small part, say 25%, good sense and thinking through, and mostly, say 75% rank cowardice)—well, given all that, I do not know why yet I live to say this thing’s to do—I can’t think, can’t say, can’t understand why I’m still alive, saying over and over again how egregious, how urgent this—deed—is, how it must be done, still has to be done—sith I have cause and will and strength and means to do’t. I’ve got the justification and the intention and the ability to do—it—and I still haven’t done—it. I am SUCH a loser.