The One With All The Shakespeare

To heal, or not to heal; that is the question:
Whether ‘tis nobler in the raid to let dps suffer
The poisons and flames of outrageous bosses,
Or to raise my arms against a sea of fail;
And by healing, enable them? To die: to fail;
No clue; and by letting them die to say we end
The heart-ache and the thousand nasty remarks
That healers are heir to, ‘tis a scenario
Devoutly to be wish’d. To die, to sleep;
To sleep: perchance to learn: ay, there’s the rub;
For in that sleep of death what lessons may be learned
When we have rebuffed ourselves from this senseless wipe,
We must pause; there’s no respect
For the fact that I can save intelligent life;
For who would bear the venom and finger-pointing of pugs,
The “you’re doing it wrong”, the “learn to heal, you noob”,
The pangs of being despised, the raid’s delay,
The insolence of immature players and the spurns
That are thrown at me in whispers from the tank,
When he himself might actually be to blame
With his inadequate threat? It is more than I can bear,
As I grunt and sweat under a weary life,
But that the dread of saving you from death,
The unappreciated role that I have borne
No mana returns, it puzzles the dps who are ill
And makes us have to bear those ills we have
While standing in fires that we know not of.
Thus failure does make raging monkeys of us all;
And thus the native hue of fun and success
Is sicklied o’er with the pale cast of doubt,
And instances of great bitching and moaning
With disregard for actual fault and responsibility,
And we lose the raid with our actions. – Praise you now!
The fair healers! Recount, in thy orisons
Be all my sins remember’d