Max

Friends, Slovenians, countrymen, lend me your funny bones;

I come to mess with Max, not to befuddle him.

The evil that men do lives after them;

The good is oft interred with their wrists;

So let it be with Max. The anemic Clifford

Hath told you Max was gargantuan:

If it were so, it was a grievous fault,

And grievously hath Max answer’d it.

Here, under leave of Clifford and the rest–

For Clifford is a vacuous man;

So are they all, all vacuous men–

Come I to speak in Max’s funeral.

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