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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