Arnaldur      Grétarsson

Life is but an unshaved beard
A poor hair mass that
frets and struts its hour upon the face.
'Tis a growth of idiots,
full of louse-ridden redness,
signfiying nothing!

To die: to shave;
No more; and by a shave to say we end
the chin-ache and the thousand facial hair
that face is father to, 'tis a beard
devoutly to be shaved. To die, to shave;

vildi bara vera með.

For in that shave of death what face may come
When we have shaved off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause: there's the respect
That makes calamity of such a long beard.

Hehehehhe...

Ég er að glíma við sama vandamál, þar sem ég hef ekki nennt að raka mig í nokkra daga.

Þetta er algengt vandamál sem maður stendur gjarnan frammi fyrir.

Alas, poor beard! I knew it, Horatio: a beard
of infinite jest, of most excellent fancy: he hath
borne it on his chin a thousand times; and now, how
abhorred in my imagination it is! my gorge rims at
it. Here hung that beard that I have kissed I know
not how oft. Where be your hairs now?

"a beard of infinite jest" -- I shall want to use this phrase more often in conversation.

Naldo and The Beard of Infinite Jest -- þetta hljómar eins og gott entry í seríu um rauðskeggjaðan, galdrandi fylliraft.

Hehe, þá vitum við það. Við gröfum ekki alltaf upp klám eða einhvers konar samfaralýsingar þegar kvæði eru krufin til mergjar. Shakespeare var bara að yrkja um skeggvöxt.