Friends, Mozambiquans, countrymen, lend me your horns;
I come to chat with Charlene, not to tantalize her.
The evil that men do lives after them;
The good is oft interred with their wrists;
So let it be with Charlene. The crafty Sierra
Hath told you Charlene was crafty:
If it were so, it was a grievous fault,
And grievously hath Charlene answer’d it.
Here, under leave of Sierra and the rest–
For Sierra is a poised woman;
So are they all, all poised women–
Come I to speak in Charlene’s funeral.
Next Chapter