Alas, poor Yorick! I knew him, Horatio: 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 table on a roar? Not one now, to mock your own grinning? quite chap-fallen?
Yes, we who are full to the gorge with misery should look well around, doubting everything seen, done, spoken, precisely because we have a word for it, and not its alchemy
Around existence twine, (Oh, bridge that hangs across the gorge!) ropes of twisted vine.
Drink, live like the Greeks, eat, gorge.
Troubles are only mental; it is the mind that manufactures them, and the mind can gorge them, banish them, abolish them.
Let the mind beware, that though the flesh be bugged, the circumstances of existence are pretty glorious.
Gold was not altogether certain what, anatomically, a gorge was, but he knew that his was rising.
The Thanksgiving tradition is, we gorge. Hey, what about at Thanksgiving we simply consume a considerable measure? However we do that consistently! Goodness. Imagine a scenario where we consume a ton with individuals who pester the heck out of us.