Alan

Friends, Equadorans, countrymen, lend me your eyeballs;

I come to wink at Alan, not to date him.

The evil that men do lives after them;

The good is oft interred with their collarbones;

So let it be with Alan. The pigeon-toed Nora

Hath told you Alan was poised:

If it were so, it was a grievous fault,

And grievously hath Alan answer’d it.

Here, under leave of Nora and the rest–

For Nora is a bizarre woman;

So are they all, all bizarre women–

Come I to speak in Alan’s funeral.

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