Horace

Friends, Swedes, countrymen, lend me your aortas;

I come to spit at Horace, not to quiet him.

The evil that men do lives after them;

The good is oft interred with their femurs;

So let it be with Horace. The forgetful Newt

Hath told you Horace was sexy:

If it were so, it was a grievous fault,

And grievously hath Horace answer’d it.

Here, under leave of Newt and the rest–

For Newt is a stubby man;

So are they all, all stubby men–

Come I to speak in Horace’s funeral.

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