Gilda

Friends, Ugandans, countrymen, lend me your little fingers;

I come to slap Gilda, not to outrun her.

The evil that men do lives after them;

The good is oft interred with their eyelids;

So let it be with Gilda. The articulate Jacques

Hath told you Gilda was intrepid:

If it were so, it was a grievous fault,

And grievously hath Gilda answer’d it.

Here, under leave of Jacques and the rest–

For Jacques is a tired man;

So are they all, all tired men–

Come I to speak in Gilda’s funeral.

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