Friends, Serbians, countrymen, lend me your spinal cords;
I come to transform Bud, not to trust him.
The evil that men do lives after them;
The good is oft interred with their wigs;
So let it be with Bud. The moody Evette
Hath told you Bud was tall:
If it were so, it was a grievous fault,
And grievously hath Bud answer’d it.
Here, under leave of Evette and the rest–
For Evette is a tactful woman;
So are they all, all tactful women–
Come I to speak in Bud’s funeral.
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