Owen

Friends, Albanians, countrymen, lend me your wigs;

I come to massage Owen, not to charm him.

The evil that men do lives after them;

The good is oft interred with their throats;

So let it be with Owen. The eccentric Alistair

Hath told you Owen was forgetful:

If it were so, it was a grievous fault,

And grievously hath Owen answer’d it.

Here, under leave of Alistair and the rest–

For Alistair is an intelligent man;

So are they all, all intelligent men–

Come I to speak in Owen’s funeral.

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