Friends, Rwandans, countrymen, lend me your calves;
I come to sing to Hugh, not to kill him.
The evil that men do lives after them;
The good is oft interred with their paws;
So let it be with Hugh. The happy Newt
Hath told you Hugh was ladylike:
If it were so, it was a grievous fault,
And grievously hath Hugh answer’d it.
Here, under leave of Newt and the rest–
For Newt is a quiet man;
So are they all, all quiet men–
Come I to speak in Hugh’s funeral.
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