To plant or not to plant, that is the question:
Whether 'tis nobler on the map to suffer
The terrorists' relentless barrage of fire,
Or to take arms against a sea of foes,
And by opposing, end them. To frag, to die—
No more; and by a death, to say we end
The round and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to. 'Tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wished. To frag, to win—
To win, perchance to rank up. Ay, there's the rub,
For in that rank-up of victory, what dreams may come,
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause. There's the respect
That makes calamity of so long a match.