Alas, poor Elon! I knew him well: a fellow

of infinite jest, of most excellent fancy: he hath

borne women on their backs a thousand times; and now, how

abhorred in my imagination it is! my gorge rises at

it. Here hung those lips that women 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; make her laugh at that.