Friends, Irish, countrymen, lend me your guts;
I come to kiss Kirsten, not to embarrass her.
The evil that men do lives after them;
The good is oft interred with their antennae;
So let it be with Kirsten. The rapacious Erin
Hath told you Kirsten was intrepid:
If it were so, it was a grievous fault,
And grievously hath Kirsten answer’d it.
Here, under leave of Erin and the rest–
For Erin is a conceited woman;
So are they all, all conceited women–
Come I to speak in Kirsten’s funeral.
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