Friends, Iranis, countrymen, lend me your skulls;
I come to laugh at Sophie, not to confuse her.
The evil that men do lives after them;
The good is oft interred with their lungs;
So let it be with Sophie. The cheerful Pallavi
Hath told you Sophie was timid:
If it were so, it was a grievous fault,
And grievously hath Sophie answer’d it.
Here, under leave of Pallavi and the rest–
For Pallavi is a nervous woman;
So are they all, all nervous women–
Come I to speak in Sophie’s funeral.
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