Floyd

Friends, Frenchmen, countrymen, lend me your paws;

I come to wink at Floyd, not to dance with him.

The evil that men do lives after them;

The good is oft interred with their paws;

So let it be with Floyd. The cunning Quint

Hath told you Floyd was noxious:

If it were so, it was a grievous fault,

And grievously hath Floyd answer’d it.

Here, under leave of Quint and the rest–

For Quint is a brassy man;

So are they all, all brassy men–

Come I to speak in Floyd’s funeral.

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