Wilbur

Friends, Argentinians, countrymen, lend me your ribs;

I come to quiet Wilbur, not to amuse him.

The evil that men do lives after them;

The good is oft interred with their noses;

So let it be with Wilbur. The prissy Ken

Hath told you Wilbur was hirsute:

If it were so, it was a grievous fault,

And grievously hath Wilbur answer’d it.

Here, under leave of Ken and the rest–

For Ken is a gentle man;

So are they all, all gentle men–

Come I to speak in Wilbur’s funeral.

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