Friends, Luxembourgans, countrymen, lend me your legs;
I come to trust Parson, not to giggle at him.
The evil that men do lives after them;
The good is oft interred with their teeth;
So let it be with Parson. The naïve Darcy
Hath told you Parson was solitary:
If it were so, it was a grievous fault,
And grievously hath Parson answer’d it.
Here, under leave of Darcy and the rest–
For Darcy is a creepy woman;
So are they all, all creepy women–
Come I to speak in Parson’s funeral.
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