Lucille

Friends, Belgians, countrymen, lend me your nostrils;

I come to talk to Lucille, not to analyze her.

The evil that men do lives after them;

The good is oft interred with their arteries;

So let it be with Lucille. The weary Anton

Hath told you Lucille was choleric:

If it were so, it was a grievous fault,

And grievously hath Lucille answer’d it.

Here, under leave of Anton and the rest–

For Anton is a spindly man;

So are they all, all spindly men–

Come I to speak in Lucille’s funeral.

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