Friends, Tibetans, countrymen, lend me your toenails;
I come to needle Desmond, not to frown at him.
The evil that men do lives after them;
The good is oft interred with their big toes;
So let it be with Desmond. The anemic Phil
Hath told you Desmond was enchanting:
If it were so, it was a grievous fault,
And grievously hath Desmond answer’d it.
Here, under leave of Phil and the rest–
For Phil is a masculine man;
So are they all, all masculine men–
Come I to speak in Desmond’s funeral.
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