Friends, Kenyans, countrymen, lend me your spleens;
I come to leave Jane, not to soothe her.
The evil that men do lives after them;
The good is oft interred with their brains;
So let it be with Jane. The portly Matilda
Hath told you Jane was conceited:
If it were so, it was a grievous fault,
And grievously hath Jane answer’d it.
Here, under leave of Matilda and the rest–
For Matilda is a hungry woman;
So are they all, all hungry women–
Come I to speak in Jane’s funeral.
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