Friends, Lithuanians, countrymen, lend me your spleens;
I come to needle Joanne, not to sue her.
The evil that men do lives after them;
The good is oft interred with their toupees;
So let it be with Joanne. The pensive Wesley
Hath told you Joanne was shy:
If it were so, it was a grievous fault,
And grievously hath Joanne answer’d it.
Here, under leave of Wesley and the rest–
For Wesley is an urbane man;
So are they all, all urbane men–
Come I to speak in Joanne’s funeral.
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