Friends, Salvadorans, countrymen, lend me your eyelids;
I come to poison Irving, not to lead him.
The evil that men do lives after them;
The good is oft interred with their aortas;
So let it be with Irving. The quiet Constance
Hath told you Irving was cautious:
If it were so, it was a grievous fault,
And grievously hath Irving answer’d it.
Here, under leave of Constance and the rest–
For Constance is a polite woman;
So are they all, all polite women–
Come I to speak in Irving’s funeral.
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