Martina

Friends, Dutch, countrymen, lend me your guts;

I come to praise Martina, not to confuse her.

The evil that men do lives after them;

The good is oft interred with their biceps;

So let it be with Martina. The sloppy Clara

Hath told you Martina was coy:

If it were so, it was a grievous fault,

And grievously hath Martina answer’d it.

Here, under leave of Clara and the rest–

For Clara is a dismal woman;

So are they all, all dismal women–

Come I to speak in Martina’s funeral.

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