Joanne

Friends, Lithuanians, countrymen, lend me your spleens;

I come to needle Joanne, not to sue her.

The evil that men do lives after them;

The good is oft interred with their toupees;

So let it be with Joanne. The pensive Wesley

Hath told you Joanne was shy:

If it were so, it was a grievous fault,

And grievously hath Joanne answer’d it.

Here, under leave of Wesley and the rest–

For Wesley is an urbane man;

So are they all, all urbane men–

Come I to speak in Joanne’s funeral.

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