Friends, Bangladeshis, countrymen, lend me your ears;
I come to slap Dillon, not to trick him.
The evil that men do lives after them;
The good is oft interred with their fingernails;
So let it be with Dillon. The beautiful Giselle
Hath told you Dillon was furious:
If it were so, it was a grievous fault,
And grievously hath Dillon answer’d it.
Here, under leave of Giselle and the rest–
For Giselle is a tired woman;
So are they all, all tired women–
Come I to speak in Dillon’s funeral.
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