Russ

Friends, Iranis, countrymen, lend me your pride;

I come to sneer at Russ, not to disinfect him.

The evil that men do lives after them;

The good is oft interred with their fingernails;

So let it be with Russ. The intrepid Abbie

Hath told you Russ was forgetful:

If it were so, it was a grievous fault,

And grievously hath Russ answer’d it.

Here, under leave of Abbie and the rest–

For Abbie is a weary woman;

So are they all, all weary women–

Come I to speak in Russ’s funeral.

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