To grow, or not to grow: that is the question:
Whether 'tis nobler in the yard to suffer
The slings and arrows of vine borrers and beetles,
Or to take arms against a sea of insects,
And by vine burying, thwart them? To water: each day;
No skips; and by pollination say life springs
But heart-ache and the thousand natural foes
That squash is heir to, 'tis a big frustration
Devoutly to be fought. To die, to spray;
To spray: perchance to spoil: ay, there's the rub;
For in that spray of death what consequences lie
When bugs have shuffled off this mortal coil,
We must give thought: the total garden respect
That gives me charge of its long life;