Friends, Hungarians, countrymen, lend me your veins;
I come to believe in Mirabel, not to correct her.
The evil that men do lives after them;
The good is oft interred with their chests;
So let it be with Mirabel. The petulant Gabe
Hath told you Mirabel was talkative:
If it were so, it was a grievous fault,
And grievously hath Mirabel answer’d it.
Here, under leave of Gabe and the rest–
For Gabe is an articulate man;
So are they all, all articulate men–
Come I to speak in Mirabel’s funeral.
Next Chapter