Poor Yorrick

Ham.

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 kiss'd 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?

To what base uses we may return.

Alexander died,

Alexander was buried, Alexander returneth into dust; the dust is

earth;

Imperious Caesar, dead and turn'd to clay,

Might stop a hole to keep the wind away.

O, that that earth which kept the world in awe

Should patch a wall to expel the winter's flaw!