Alas, poor Mother! I knew her, my sibs: a woman of infinite jest, of most excellent fancy: she hath borne me on her 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 table on a roar? Not one now, to mock your own grinning? quite chap-fallen? Now get you to my siblings' chamber, and tell them, let them paint an inch thick, to this favour they must
come; make them laugh at that. And I, I alone, came last eve and this morn, to raise her up to her rightful place!