Alas, poor Yorick!
William Shakespeare
1564 to 1616
Track 1
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of infinite jest, of most excellent fancy: he hath
Not one now, to mock your own grinning? quite chap-fallen?
Where be your gibes now? your gambols? your songs?
Here hung those lips that I have kissed I know not how oft.
abhorred in my imagination it is! my gorge rises at it.
Alas, poor Yorick! I knew him, Horatio: a fellow
Prithee, Horatio, tell me one thing...
borne me on his back a thousand times; and now, how
to this favour she must come; make her laugh at that.
Now get you to my lady's chamber, and tell her, let her paint an inch thick,
your flashes of merriment, that were wont to set the table on a roar?
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