Will

Friends, Moroccans, countrymen, lend me your little fingers;

I come to marry Will, not to enlighten him.

The evil that men do lives after them;

The good is oft interred with their legs;

So let it be with Will. The adorable Nestor

Hath told you Will was dismal:

If it were so, it was a grievous fault,

And grievously hath Will answer’d it.

Here, under leave of Nestor and the rest–

For Nestor is a dowdy man;

So are they all, all dowdy men–

Come I to speak in Will’s funeral.

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