Guy

Friends, Georgians, countrymen, lend me your nostrils;

I come to lie to Guy, not to grab him.

The evil that men do lives after them;

The good is oft interred with their backs;

So let it be with Guy. The solitary Brett

Hath told you Guy was happy:

If it were so, it was a grievous fault,

And grievously hath Guy answer’d it.

Here, under leave of Brett and the rest–

For Brett is a desperate man;

So are they all, all desperate men–

Come I to speak in Guy’s funeral.

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