In Thy Youth Wast As True A

To Saucy Doubts And Fears.

The Lunatic, The Lover, And The Poet, Are Of Imagination All Compact.

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?

Here's That Which Is Too Weak To Be A Sinner, Honest Water, Which Ne'er Left Man I' The Mire.

Love Is Not Love That Alters When It Alteration Finds.