Cory

Friends, Germans, countrymen, lend me your aortas;

I come to transform Cory, not to fight with him.

The evil that men do lives after them;

The good is oft interred with their little toes;

So let it be with Cory. The hungry Alex

Hath told you Cory was calm:

If it were so, it was a grievous fault,

And grievously hath Cory answer’d it.

Here, under leave of Alex and the rest–

For Alex is a refined man;

So are they all, all refined men–

Come I to speak in Cory’s funeral.

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