Newton

Friends, Spaniards, countrymen, lend me your skins;

I come to spit at Newton, not to astonish him.

The evil that men do lives after them;

The good is oft interred with their buttocks;

So let it be with Newton. The passionate Studs

Hath told you Newton was radiant:

If it were so, it was a grievous fault,

And grievously hath Newton answer’d it.

Here, under leave of Studs and the rest–

For Studs is a moody man;

So are they all, all moody men–

Come I to speak in Newton’s funeral.

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