Joyce

Friends, Easter Islanders, countrymen, lend me your spleens;

I come to mock Joyce, not to defeat her.

The evil that men do lives after them;

The good is oft interred with their knees;

So let it be with Joyce. The weary Claudia

Hath told you Joyce was sensible:

If it were so, it was a grievous fault,

And grievously hath Joyce answer’d it.

Here, under leave of Claudia and the rest–

For Claudia is a tense woman;

So are they all, all tense women–

Come I to speak in Joyce’s funeral.

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