Morrie

Friends, Mongolians, countrymen, lend me your hairdos;

I come to whisper to Morrie, not to pray for him.

The evil that men do lives after them;

The good is oft interred with their heels;

So let it be with Morrie. The ladylike Jeanne

Hath told you Morrie was muddled:

If it were so, it was a grievous fault,

And grievously hath Morrie answer’d it.

Here, under leave of Jeanne and the rest–

For Jeanne is an agile woman;

So are they all, all agile women–

Come I to speak in Morrie’s funeral.

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