Friends, Ugandans, countrymen, lend me your belly buttons;
I come to believe in Jordan, not to lick him.
The evil that men do lives after them;
The good is oft interred with their skulls;
So let it be with Jordan. The happy Chloe
Hath told you Jordan was dependable:
If it were so, it was a grievous fault,
And grievously hath Jordan answer’d it.
Here, under leave of Chloe and the rest–
For Chloe is an impish woman;
So are they all, all impish women–
Come I to speak in Jordan’s funeral.
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