Jude

Friends, Nicaraguans, countrymen, lend me your bellies;

I come to jab Jude, not to grill him.

The evil that men do lives after them;

The good is oft interred with their wrists;

So let it be with Jude. The wizened Motormouth

Hath told you Jude was weary:

If it were so, it was a grievous fault,

And grievously hath Jude answer’d it.

Here, under leave of Motormouth and the rest–

For Motormouth is a disagreeable woman;

So are they all, all disagreeable women–

Come I to speak in Jude’s funeral.

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