Alice

Friends, Turks, countrymen, lend me your biceps;

I come to attack Alice, not to sit on her.

The evil that men do lives after them;

The good is oft interred with their noses;

So let it be with Alice. The happy Hildegarde

Hath told you Alice was absent-minded:

If it were so, it was a grievous fault,

And grievously hath Alice answer’d it.

Here, under leave of Hildegarde and the rest–

For Hildegarde is a bizarre woman;

So are they all, all bizarre women–

Come I to speak in Alice’s funeral.

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