To SQL: perchance configure: ay, there's the rub;
For in that sleep of SQL what dreams may come
When we have shuffled off this client side,
Must give us pause: there's the respect
That makes calamity of so much data;
For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
The update wronged, the nic card outage,
The pangs of tangled keys, the locked record,
The insolence of office and the spurns
That users toil of the unworthy drivers,
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 yet to fail,
The undiscover'd country from whose bourn
No developer returns, puzzles the will
And makes us rather bear those ills we have
Than fly to SQL 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 Oracle! Sybase, or Micro Soft;
Be all my triggers remember'd.