To smoke, or not to smoke; that is the question:
Whether 'tis nobler in the lungs to suffer
The coughing and wheezing of endless tobacco pleasure,
Or to take up sobriety against a sea of flem,
And by opposing live longer? To live: to smoke
No more; and by not smoking to say we end
The throat-ache and the thousdands of Rads of therapy 
That flesh is air too, 'tis a sobriety 
Devoutly to be wish'd. To live: to not smoke;
To not smoke: perchance to not crave: ay, there's the rub;
For in that pure living what tobacco pleasure may waste
When we have cleansed this mortal hookah,
Must give us a deep breath: there's the respect
That brings cessation to so long a conviction;
For who would bear the comfort and contentment of smoking,
The Big Tobacco's wrongs, the proud smokers's musk,
The pangs of disgruntled lungs, the law's limiting ubiquity,
The insolence of mortality, and the round burns
That patient Merit of the cheap cigarettes,
When you yourself might your quietus make
With a final e-cigarette? Who would fardels bear,
To grunt and sweat under a anxious detox,
But for hope of nicotine after death,
The undiscover'd brands from whose land
No traveller returns, puzzles the will
And makes us rather smoke those cigarettes we have
Than fly to patch, gum, or lozenge we know not of.
Thus nicotine does makes adicts of us all;
And thus the sober hue of abstinance
Is sickled o'er by that last cigarett in the drawer,
And enterprises of less habbit and indulgence
With this regard their resolve smolder,
And rekindle the name of smoking. - Breath you now!
The fair Zippo! Lighter, in thy glow,
Be all my nicotine vigils remember'd.

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: 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.