Round let us bound, for this is Punch's holiday,
Glory to Tomfoolery, huzza! huzza!
Hamlet.
I'm Hamlet in camlet, my ap and perihelia
The moon can fix, which lunatics makes sharp or flat.
I stuck by ill luck, enamour'd of Ophelia,
Old Polony like a sausage, and exclaim'd, 'Rat, rat!'
Ghost.
Let Gertrude sup the poison'd cup—no more I'll be an actor in
Such sorry food, but drink home-brew'd of Whitbread's manufacturing.