...except after "C"

that is the question:
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to offer
For profit the spoils of childhood mirth,
Or to save them up for the next generation,
And by cherishing waste them? To sell: to hawk;
No more; and by an auction we end
The memories of a thousand youthful moments
That could be passed on, 'tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish'd. To sell, to market;
To auction: perchance to win big: ay, there's the rub;
For in that auction what profits may come
When we have sluffed off our worldly goods,
To unsuspecting fools: there's the respect
Of playthings that have gathered dust so long;
For who will really appreciate after all this time,
The baseball cards, the stamp collection,
The Star Wars figures, the G.I. Joes,
The vintage Fisher Price Little People
That patient bidders will undoubtedly take,
When he himself might available make
With a mere keystroke? who would hesitate,
To post and sweat waiting the final call,
But that the dread they might not sell,
And he discover his treasures naught.
No surfer returns from Froogling
To make an offer, or worse one does
And our goods fly to others that we know not of?
Thus reminiscences make cowards of us all;
And thus the stockpile of latent fortune
Is passed o'er with the pale cast of thought,
And enterprises of great wealth and riches
With memories their currents turn awry,
And lose the name of action. - Soft you now!
The fair Yoda! Jedi, in thy inverted grammar
Be all my things remember'd.
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