Their Manners Are More Gentle, Kind, Than

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?

Lay Not That Flattering Unction To Your Soul, That Not Your Trespass But My Madness Speaks.

The Brain May Devise Laws For The Blood, But A Hot Temper Leaps O'er A Cold Decree.

Youth To Itself Rebels, Though None Else Near.

If The Boy Have Not A Woman's Gift To Rain A Shower Of Commanded Tears, An Onion Will Do Well For Such A Shift.