Friends, Ugandans, countrymen, lend me your eyelids;
I come to torment Patricia, not to lick her.
The evil that men do lives after them;
The good is oft interred with their little fingers;
So let it be with Patricia. The loving Andrew
Hath told you Patricia was bold:
If it were so, it was a grievous fault,
And grievously hath Patricia answer’d it.
Here, under leave of Andrew and the rest–
For Andrew is a hirsute man;
So are they all, all hirsute men–
Come I to speak in Patricia’s funeral.
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