Alas, poor VegaBean! I knew her, Horatio: a fellowess
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?
But, fortunately she was a philosophress,
and never cared if her words remained
like a blog stain on the floor of the internet
or were swept to sea with the tides.
Farewell, sweet pheonix, to die and rise again!