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 rims at it. Here have hung those lips that I have kissed 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 a roar? Not one now, to mock Your own grinning? Quite chap-fallen? Now get you to my ladys chamber, and tell her, let her paint an inch thick, to this favour she must come, make her laugh at that.
Posted on: Thu, 31 Oct 2013 15:00:29 +0000
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