Andrew

Friends, Iraqis, countrymen, lend me your pride;

I come to needle Andrew, not to kiss him.

The evil that men do lives after them;

The good is oft interred with their aortas;

So let it be with Andrew. The bellicose Cliff

Hath told you Andrew was fuzzy:

If it were so, it was a grievous fault,

And grievously hath Andrew answer’d it.

Here, under leave of Cliff and the rest–

For Cliff is a fashionable man;

So are they all, all fashionable men–

Come I to speak in Andrew’s funeral.

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