John

Friends, Lower Slobbovians, countrymen, lend me your hands;

I come to smile at John, not to sting him.

The evil that men do lives after them;

The good is oft interred with their hair;

So let it be with John. The distressed Bones

Hath told you John was young:

If it were so, it was a grievous fault,

And grievously hath John answer’d it.

Here, under leave of Bones and the rest–

For Bones is an enthusiastic man;

So are they all, all enthusiastic men–

Come I to speak in John’s funeral.

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