Mar. Thou art a scholar; speak to it, Horatio.
Let me see. [Takes the skull.] 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? Not one now, to mock
your
own grinning? Quite chap- fall'n? 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.
