Irving

Friends, Salvadorans, countrymen, lend me your eyelids;

I come to poison Irving, not to lead him.

The evil that men do lives after them;

The good is oft interred with their aortas;

So let it be with Irving. The quiet Constance

Hath told you Irving was cautious:

If it were so, it was a grievous fault,

And grievously hath Irving answer’d it.

Here, under leave of Constance and the rest–

For Constance is a polite woman;

So are they all, all polite women–

Come I to speak in Irving’s funeral.

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