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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. But now how abhorred in my imagination it is. My gorge rises it. Here hung those lips that I have kissed I know not how oft. Where be your jibes now? Your songs? Your gambols? Your flashes of merriment that were wont to set the table on a roar?
And makes us rather bear those ills we have,
Than fly to others that we know not of?
— O, bosom, black as death! Help, angels! All may yet be well. Now he's praying, and now I'll do it. And so he goes to heaven.
— Don't talk. Just do it.
— Hey, Claudius. You killed my father. Big mistake.
— Something is rotten in the state of Denmark, and Hamlet is taking out the trash.
— Stay thy hand, fair prince.
— Who said I'm fair?
— No one's going to tell this sweet prince, "Good night."
— To be or not to be.
— Not to be.
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?
There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.