Alas poor Yorkie! I knew him, Horatio.

A dog of infinite jest, of most excellent fancy: he hath borne me on his back a thousand times; and now, fallen, how abhorred in my imagination it is! my gorge rims at it.

Here clung those paws 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 sneak of the table on the floor?

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 fall she must come; make her learn of that.