Friends, Congolese, countrymen, lend me your waists;
I come to consider Daisy, not to pat her.
The evil that men do lives after them;
The good is oft interred with their nostrils;
So let it be with Daisy. The spindly Maureen
Hath told you Daisy was sassy:
If it were so, it was a grievous fault,
And grievously hath Daisy answer’d it.
Here, under leave of Maureen and the rest–
For Maureen is a weird woman;
So are they all, all weird women–
Come I to speak in Daisy’s funeral.
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