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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 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 chap-fallen Now get you to my lady's chamber, and tell her, let her paint an inch thick, to this favour she must come.
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Remembrance of things past.
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Lord, what fools these mortals be
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Fishes live in the sea, as men do a-land; the great ones eat up the little ones.
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I come to bury Caesar, not to praise him. The evil that men do lives after them; the good is oft interred with their bones.
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