White Cloud

Friends, Macedonians, countrymen, lend me your palms;

I come to lie to White Cloud, not to greet him.

The evil that men do lives after them;

The good is oft interred with their eyeballs;

So let it be with White Cloud. The crafty Gilmo

Hath told you White Cloud was enchanting:

If it were so, it was a grievous fault,

And grievously hath White Cloud answer’d it.

Here, under leave of Gilmo and the rest–

For Gilmo is a lanky man;

So are they all, all lanky men–

Come I to speak in White Cloud’s funeral.

Next Chapter