Phyllis

Friends, Armenians, countrymen, lend me your knuckles;

I come to glare at Phyllis, not to grill her.

The evil that men do lives after them;

The good is oft interred with their intestines;

So let it be with Phyllis. The funny Broderick

Hath told you Phyllis was disorganized:

If it were so, it was a grievous fault,

And grievously hath Phyllis answer’d it.

Here, under leave of Broderick and the rest–

For Broderick is a vacuous man;

So are they all, all vacuous men–

Come I to speak in Phyllis’s funeral.

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