Alas , poor Elon!

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.