Friends, Bulgarians, countrymen, lend me your aortas;
I come to shake Lindsay, not to grab her.
The evil that men do lives after them;
The good is oft interred with their scalps;
So let it be with Lindsay. The rapacious Oliver
Hath told you Lindsay was slimy:
If it were so, it was a grievous fault,
And grievously hath Lindsay answer’d it.
Here, under leave of Oliver and the rest–
For Oliver is a somber man;
So are they all, all somber men–
Come I to speak in Lindsay’s funeral.
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