Soliloquy for the Educating Artist

To teach, or not to teach: that is the question:
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The resistance and risk of the outrageous art world,
Or to take arms against a sea of academia,
And by opposing end them? To teach: to work;
No more; and by work to say we end
The heart-ache and the thousand natural pains,
That creativity is heir to, 'tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish'd. To teach, to work;
To work: perchance to create: ay, there's the rub;
For in that work of solitude what creations may come
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause: there's the esteem
That makes calamity of creativity so long a life;
For who would bear the pressure and restraints of time,
The system’s wrong, the proud critics contumely,
The pangs of despised creations, the days delay,
The insolence of position and the disdain of
The waiting merit that the undeserving take,
When them themselves might their quietus make
With a bare infatuation? who would fardels bear,
To grunt and sweat over a blank canvas,
But that, the dread of nothing after teaching,
The empty space from whose bourn
No artist can return, puzzles the purity of will
And makes us rather bear those fears 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 potential,
With this regard their thoughts turn awry,
And lose the name of action. - Soft you now!
The fair Muse! Nymph, in thy consideration
Be all my sins remember'd.