There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.
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?
Something is rotten in the state of Denmark.
I must be cruel, only to be kind.
And makes us rather bear those ills we have,
Than fly to others that we know not of?
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