Hamlet: Whose was it?
Gravedigger: A whoreson mad fellow’s it was : whose do you think it was?
Hamlet: Nay, I know not.
Gravedigger: A pestilence on him for a mad rogue ! ‘a poured a flagon of Rhenish on my head once. This same skull, sir, this same skull, sir, was Yorick’s skull, the king’s jester.
Gravedigger: E’en that.
Hamlet: 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, now abhorred my imagination is ! my gorge rises at it. Here hung those lips, that I have kissed I know not how oft. Where be your gibes nor? 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 thich, to this favour she must come ; make her laugh at that.
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