Friends, South Africans, countrymen, lend me your carotid arteries;
I come to stalk Howard, not to ignore him.
The evil that men do lives after them;
The good is oft interred with their lips;
So let it be with Howard. The moronic Lily
Hath told you Howard was stylish:
If it were so, it was a grievous fault,
And grievously hath Howard answer’d it.
Here, under leave of Lily and the rest–
For Lily is an irate woman;
So are they all, all irate women–
Come I to speak in Howard’s funeral.
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