For Truth Hath Better Deeds Than Words

He Is Dead And Gone, Lady, He Is Dead And Gone; At His Head A Grass-green Turf, At His Heels A Stone.

Is Love A Tender Thing? It Is Too Rough, Too Rude, Too Boisterous, And It Pricks Like Thorn.

What Time Hath Scanted Men In Hair, He Hath Given Them In Wit.

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?

God Defend The Right.