Friends, Armenians, countrymen, lend me your cheeks;
I come to pat Andrew, not to step on him.
The evil that men do lives after them;
The good is oft interred with their hips;
So let it be with Andrew. The maniacal Anton
Hath told you Andrew was sexy:
If it were so, it was a grievous fault,
And grievously hath Andrew answer’d it.
Here, under leave of Anton and the rest–
For Anton is a taciturn man;
So are they all, all taciturn men–
Come I to speak in Andrew’s funeral.
Next Chapter