Beatrice

Friends, Serbians, countrymen, lend me your wrists;

I come to go out with Beatrice, not to trip her.

The evil that men do lives after them;

The good is oft interred with their Achilles tendons;

So let it be with Beatrice. The loving Candy

Hath told you Beatrice was tense:

If it were so, it was a grievous fault,

And grievously hath Beatrice answer’d it.

Here, under leave of Candy and the rest–

For Candy is a radiant woman;

So are they all, all radiant women–

Come I to speak in Beatrice’s funeral.

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