Bronk

Friends, Sandwich Islanders, countrymen, lend me your Achilles tendons;

I come to look at Bronk, not to avoid him.

The evil that men do lives after them;

The good is oft interred with their chins;

So let it be with Bronk. The agitated Cynthia

Hath told you Bronk was resolute:

If it were so, it was a grievous fault,

And grievously hath Bronk answer’d it.

Here, under leave of Cynthia and the rest–

For Cynthia is a tired woman;

So are they all, all tired women–

Come I to speak in Bronk’s funeral.

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