Sophie

Friends, Iranis, countrymen, lend me your skulls;

I come to laugh at Sophie, not to confuse her.

The evil that men do lives after them;

The good is oft interred with their lungs;

So let it be with Sophie. The cheerful Pallavi

Hath told you Sophie was timid:

If it were so, it was a grievous fault,

And grievously hath Sophie answer’d it.

Here, under leave of Pallavi and the rest–

For Pallavi is a nervous woman;

So are they all, all nervous women–

Come I to speak in Sophie’s funeral.

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