Friends, Americans, countrymen, lend me your nostrils;
I come to text Sam, not to sit on him.
The evil that men do lives after them;
The good is oft interred with their earlobes;
So let it be with Sam. The ladylike Katie
Hath told you Sam was wily:
If it were so, it was a grievous fault,
And grievously hath Sam answer’d it.
Here, under leave of Katie and the rest–
For Katie is a portly woman;
So are they all, all portly women–
Come I to speak in Sam’s funeral.
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