Friends, Czechs, countrymen, lend me your hairdos;
I come to think about Beatrice, not to spank her.
The evil that men do lives after them;
The good is oft interred with their scalps;
So let it be with Beatrice. The young Liz
Hath told you Beatrice was insane:
If it were so, it was a grievous fault,
And grievously hath Beatrice answer’d it.
Here, under leave of Liz and the rest–
For Liz is a prissy woman;
So are they all, all prissy women–
Come I to speak in Beatrice’s funeral.
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