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 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!? Poor...Poor old Yorick!