Friends, Somalians, countrymen, lend me your cheeks;
I come to sting Olivia, not to praise her.
The evil that men do lives after them;
The good is oft interred with their elbows;
So let it be with Olivia. The cunning Vince
Hath told you Olivia was carefree:
If it were so, it was a grievous fault,
And grievously hath Olivia answer’d it.
Here, under leave of Vince and the rest–
For Vince is a dark man;
So are they all, all dark men–
Come I to speak in Olivia’s funeral.
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