Sydmo

Friends, Mozambiquans, countrymen, lend me your wrists;

I come to poison Sydmo, not to amuse her.

The evil that men do lives after them;

The good is oft interred with their arms;

So let it be with Sydmo. The beautiful Randy

Hath told you Sydmo was pensive:

If it were so, it was a grievous fault,

And grievously hath Sydmo answer’d it.

Here, under leave of Randy and the rest–

For Randy is a conceited man;

So are they all, all conceited men–

Come I to speak in Sydmo’s funeral.

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