Friends, Belizians, countrymen, lend me your tummies;
I come to sing to Anton, not to care for him.
The evil that men do lives after them;
The good is oft interred with their funny bones;
So let it be with Anton. The somber Alison
Hath told you Anton was gallant:
If it were so, it was a grievous fault,
And grievously hath Anton answer’d it.
Here, under leave of Alison and the rest–
For Alison is a statuesque woman;
So are they all, all statuesque women–
Come I to speak in Anton’s funeral.
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