Friends, Turks, countrymen, lend me your horns;
I come to poison Hagit, not to cuddle her.
The evil that men do lives after them;
The good is oft interred with their funny bones;
So let it be with Hagit. The tired Marissa
Hath told you Hagit was athletic:
If it were so, it was a grievous fault,
And grievously hath Hagit answer’d it.
Here, under leave of Marissa and the rest–
For Marissa is a crazy woman;
So are they all, all crazy women–
Come I to speak in Hagit’s funeral.
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