Martina

Friends, Mongolians, countrymen, lend me your heads;

I come to agree with Martina, not to wrestle with her.

The evil that men do lives after them;

The good is oft interred with their tongues;

So let it be with Martina. The lazy Hendrick

Hath told you Martina was choleric:

If it were so, it was a grievous fault,

And grievously hath Martina answer’d it.

Here, under leave of Hendrick and the rest–

For Hendrick is a petulant man;

So are they all, all petulant men–

Come I to speak in Martina’s funeral.

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