RIP 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 in my imagination it 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 chapfallen?

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.—Prithee, Horatio, tell me one thing.