Friends, Irish, countrymen, lend me your eyes;
I come to shrink Stormy, not to defeat her.
The evil that men do lives after them;
The good is oft interred with their fingers;
So let it be with Stormy. The cowardly Ryan
Hath told you Stormy was big:
If it were so, it was a grievous fault,
And grievously hath Stormy answer’d it.
Here, under leave of Ryan and the rest–
For Ryan is a weary man;
So are they all, all weary men–
Come I to speak in Stormy’s funeral.
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