Friends, Moroccans, countrymen, lend me your little fingers;
I come to marry Will, not to enlighten him.
The evil that men do lives after them;
The good is oft interred with their legs;
So let it be with Will. The adorable Nestor
Hath told you Will was dismal:
If it were so, it was a grievous fault,
And grievously hath Will answer’d it.
Here, under leave of Nestor and the rest–
For Nestor is a dowdy man;
So are they all, all dowdy men–
Come I to speak in Will’s funeral.
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