Conner

Friends, Germans, countrymen, lend me your arteries;

I come to soothe Conner, not to scream at him.

The evil that men do lives after them;

The good is oft interred with their esophaguses;

So let it be with Conner. The wary Sydmo

Hath told you Conner was friendly:

If it were so, it was a grievous fault,

And grievously hath Conner answer’d it.

Here, under leave of Sydmo and the rest–

For Sydmo is an intelligent woman;

So are they all, all intelligent women–

Come I to speak in Conner’s funeral.

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