Stormy

Friends, Irish, countrymen, lend me your eyes;

I come to shrink Stormy, not to defeat her.

The evil that men do lives after them;

The good is oft interred with their fingers;

So let it be with Stormy. The cowardly Ryan

Hath told you Stormy was big:

If it were so, it was a grievous fault,

And grievously hath Stormy answer’d it.

Here, under leave of Ryan and the rest–

For Ryan is a weary man;

So are they all, all weary men–

Come I to speak in Stormy’s funeral.

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