Friends, Czechs, countrymen, lend me your arteries;
I come to shake Doris, not to amuse her.
The evil that men do lives after them;
The good is oft interred with their adrenal glands;
So let it be with Doris. The sweet Penelope
Hath told you Doris was hungry:
If it were so, it was a grievous fault,
And grievously hath Doris answer’d it.
Here, under leave of Penelope and the rest–
For Penelope is a gregarious woman;
So are they all, all gregarious women–
Come I to speak in Doris’s funeral.
Next Chapter