Friends, Mozambiquans, countrymen, lend me your pancreases;
I come to caress Thelma, not to tickle her.
The evil that men do lives after them;
The good is oft interred with their knuckles;
So let it be with Thelma. The haughty Winnie
Hath told you Thelma was disorganized:
If it were so, it was a grievous fault,
And grievously hath Thelma answer’d it.
Here, under leave of Winnie and the rest–
For Winnie is an ungainly woman;
So are they all, all ungainly women–
Come I to speak in Thelma’s funeral.
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