The People Are The City.

Faster Than Spring-time Showers Comes Thought On Thought.

Every Man Has Business And Desire, Such As It Is.

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?

I Charge Thee, Hence, And Do Not Haunt Me Thus.

So, Good Night Unto You All. Give Me Your Hands, If We Be Friends, And Robin Shall Restore Amends.