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 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?

A very scurvy fellow.

Tis time to fear when tyrants seem to kiss.

Some kinds of baseness are nobly undergone.

But wherefore could not I pronounce 'Amen'? I had most need of blessing, and 'Amen' Stuck in my throat.

No doubt they rose up early to observe the rite of May; and, hearing our intent, Came here in grace of our solemnity.

What a terrible era in which idiots govern the blind.