With apologies to the bard

Alas, poor Seamus! I knew him, Horatio: a canine
of infinite jest, of most excellent fancy: I hath
borne him on the roof a thousand times; and now, how
abhorred in my Mitt's poll results 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 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.