Bub

Friends, Mexicans, countrymen, lend me your wigs;

I come to pat Bub, not to surprise him.

The evil that men do lives after them;

The good is oft interred with their chins;

So let it be with Bub. The melancholic Paula

Hath told you Bub was sinister:

If it were so, it was a grievous fault,

And grievously hath Bub answer’d it.

Here, under leave of Paula and the rest–

For Paula is a solitary woman;

So are they all, all solitary women–

Come I to speak in Bub’s funeral.

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