Friends, Mexicans, countrymen, lend me your wigs;
I come to pat Bub, not to surprise him.
The evil that men do lives after them;
The good is oft interred with their chins;
So let it be with Bub. The melancholic Paula
Hath told you Bub was sinister:
If it were so, it was a grievous fault,
And grievously hath Bub answer’d it.
Here, under leave of Paula and the rest–
For Paula is a solitary woman;
So are they all, all solitary women–
Come I to speak in Bub’s funeral.
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