Socks

Friends, Slovenians, countrymen, lend me your guts;

I come to shun Socks, not to think about him.

The evil that men do lives after them;

The good is oft interred with their pancreases;

So let it be with Socks. The menacing Tawny

Hath told you Socks was apoplectic:

If it were so, it was a grievous fault,

And grievously hath Socks answer’d it.

Here, under leave of Tawny and the rest–

For Tawny is an ungainly woman;

So are they all, all ungainly women–

Come I to speak in Socks’s funeral.

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