III Hamlet on Seeing the Skull of Yorick
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 my imagination is’! My gorge rises’ at it. Here 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 on a roar’? Not one’, now, to mock your own grinning’? quite chopfallen’? Now get you to my lady’s chamber’ and tell her’, let her paint an inch thick’ to this favor’ she must come’; make her laugh at that’.