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Alas, poor Yorick!
I knew him, Horatio.
A fellow of infinite jest, of most excellent fancy.
He hath borne me on his back a thousand times.
And now how abhorred in my imagination it is!
My gorge rises at it.
Here hung those lips that I have kiss'd I know not how oft.
Where be your gibes now? your gambols? your songs?
your flashes of merriment that were wont to set the table on a roar?
Not one now, to mock your own grinning?
Quite chap- fall'n?
Now get you to my lady's chamber, and tell her,
let her paint an inch thick,
to this favour she must come.
Make her laugh at that.