Friends, Georgians, countrymen, lend me your nostrils;
I come to lie to Guy, not to grab him.
The evil that men do lives after them;
The good is oft interred with their backs;
So let it be with Guy. The solitary Brett
Hath told you Guy was happy:
If it were so, it was a grievous fault,
And grievously hath Guy answer’d it.
Here, under leave of Brett and the rest–
For Brett is a desperate man;
So are they all, all desperate men–
Come I to speak in Guy’s funeral.
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