Lindsay

Friends, Bulgarians, countrymen, lend me your aortas;

I come to shake Lindsay, not to grab her.

The evil that men do lives after them;

The good is oft interred with their scalps;

So let it be with Lindsay. The rapacious Oliver

Hath told you Lindsay was slimy:

If it were so, it was a grievous fault,

And grievously hath Lindsay answer’d it.

Here, under leave of Oliver and the rest–

For Oliver is a somber man;

So are they all, all somber men–

Come I to speak in Lindsay’s funeral.

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