Jane

Friends, Kenyans, countrymen, lend me your spleens;

I come to leave Jane, not to soothe her.

The evil that men do lives after them;

The good is oft interred with their brains;

So let it be with Jane. The portly Matilda

Hath told you Jane was conceited:

If it were so, it was a grievous fault,

And grievously hath Jane answer’d it.

Here, under leave of Matilda and the rest–

For Matilda is a hungry woman;

So are they all, all hungry women–

Come I to speak in Jane’s funeral.

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