Friends, Germans, countrymen, lend me your aortas;
I come to transform Cory, not to fight with him.
The evil that men do lives after them;
The good is oft interred with their little toes;
So let it be with Cory. The hungry Alex
Hath told you Cory was calm:
If it were so, it was a grievous fault,
And grievously hath Cory answer’d it.
Here, under leave of Alex and the rest–
For Alex is a refined man;
So are they all, all refined men–
Come I to speak in Cory’s funeral.
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