Marcie

Friends, Russians, countrymen, lend me your ankles;

I come to manipulate Marcie, not to tickle her.

The evil that men do lives after them;

The good is oft interred with their elbows;

So let it be with Marcie. The passionate Anton

Hath told you Marcie was bilious:

If it were so, it was a grievous fault,

And grievously hath Marcie answer’d it.

Here, under leave of Anton and the rest–

For Anton is a tired man;

So are they all, all tired men–

Come I to speak in Marcie’s funeral.

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