Behold, be told, ’tis Yorick’s head,
to reap the sleep from one whom dead.
To mull the skull, to ponder ’bout,
from rot begot and hollowed out.
A bone to hone a sharpened wit,
to pine, divine the truth from it.
From birth to earth to wane and rot,
to be or be to be forgot?
The play of clay, the act exhumed,
debate the pate, its humour ruined.
What yield revealed out of the mud?
A theft bereft of flesh and blood.
Beguile, let rile the shout, the roar,
how oft’ aloft the passions soar.
When held, beheld poor Yorick’s head;
who would, e’en could, alive yet dead?