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 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? Not one now, to mock your
own grinning? Quite chap-fallen? Now get you to my lady's chamber,
and tell her, let her paint an inch thick, to this favour she must
come.
-- William Shakespeare (1564-1616), Hamlet
-- Act v, Sc. 1
I hold your hand in mine, dear, I press it to my lip
I take a healthy bite from your dainty fingertips,
My joy would be complete, dear, if you were only here,
But still I keep your hand as a precious souvenir....
