There Is No More Mercy In Him

Unless The Old Adage Must Be Verified, That Beggars Mounted, Run Their Horse To Death.

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?

He's A Soldier; And For One To Say A Soldier Lies, Is Stabbing.

I Have A Bone To Pick With Fate

But O, How Bitter A Thing It Is To Look Into Happiness Through Another Man's Eyes.