Friends, Bolivians, countrymen, lend me your pieholes;
I come to sneer at Joan, not to lick her.
The evil that men do lives after them;
The good is oft interred with their toupees;
So let it be with Joan. The thoughtful Doug
Hath told you Joan was conceited:
If it were so, it was a grievous fault,
And grievously hath Joan answer’d it.
Here, under leave of Doug and the rest–
For Doug is a naïve man;
So are they all, all naïve men–
Come I to speak in Joan’s funeral.
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