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?
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