Sam

Friends, Americans, countrymen, lend me your nostrils;

I come to text Sam, not to sit on him.

The evil that men do lives after them;

The good is oft interred with their earlobes;

So let it be with Sam. The ladylike Katie

Hath told you Sam was wily:

If it were so, it was a grievous fault,

And grievously hath Sam answer’d it.

Here, under leave of Katie and the rest–

For Katie is a portly woman;

So are they all, all portly women–

Come I to speak in Sam’s funeral.

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