Something's rotten in Wicklow.....
First Clown:
A pestilence on him for a mad rogue! 'a pour'd a flagon
of Rhenish on my head once. This same skull, sir, was, sir,
Evan's skull, the King's jester.
Hamlet:
This? [Takes the skull]
First Clown:
E'en that.
Hamlet:
Alas, poor Evan! I knew him, Horatio, a fellow of infinite
jest, of most excellent fancy. He hath bore me on his back a
thousand times, and now how abhorr'd in my imagination it is!
My gorge rises at it.
Leo:
And how thine airline fails upon the short devices of treachery's tiniest son.
Hark now, on trickery's trick, for Albion's shore did a start renew, though star crossed lovers ne'er to be, the Shamrock's fortunes fail shorter still.