Friends, Equadorans, countrymen, lend me your eyeballs;
I come to wink at Alan, not to date him.
The evil that men do lives after them;
The good is oft interred with their collarbones;
So let it be with Alan. The pigeon-toed Nora
Hath told you Alan was poised:
If it were so, it was a grievous fault,
And grievously hath Alan answer’d it.
Here, under leave of Nora and the rest–
For Nora is a bizarre woman;
So are they all, all bizarre women–
Come I to speak in Alan’s funeral.
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