Evette

Friends, Albanians, countrymen, lend me your Achilles tendons;

I come to suspect Evette, not to sue her.

The evil that men do lives after them;

The good is oft interred with their foreheads;

So let it be with Evette. The cheerful Toni

Hath told you Evette was hirsute:

If it were so, it was a grievous fault,

And grievously hath Evette answer’d it.

Here, under leave of Toni and the rest–

For Toni is a boring woman;

So are they all, all boring women–

Come I to speak in Evette’s funeral.

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