>>510091689
Alas, poor Taras! I knew him, Ivan: 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 Russian table on a roar? Not one
now, to mock your own grinning? quite chap-fallen?