André

Friends, Iranis, countrymen, lend me your livers;

I come to sit on André, not to listen to him.

The evil that men do lives after them;

The good is oft interred with their toupees;

So let it be with André. The colorless Lori

Hath told you André was impish:

If it were so, it was a grievous fault,

And grievously hath André answer’d it.

Here, under leave of Lori and the rest–

For Lori is a sloppy woman;

So are they all, all sloppy women–

Come I to speak in André’s funeral.

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