Sandra

Friends, Uruguayans, countrymen, lend me your hooves;

I come to rely on Sandra, not to awe her.

The evil that men do lives after them;

The good is oft interred with their ribs;

So let it be with Sandra. The prickly Drover

Hath told you Sandra was carefree:

If it were so, it was a grievous fault,

And grievously hath Sandra answer’d it.

Here, under leave of Drover and the rest–

For Drover is a queer man;

So are they all, all queer men–

Come I to speak in Sandra’s funeral.

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