Friends, Nicaraguans, countrymen, lend me your scalps;
I come to dump Willard, not to double-cross him.
The evil that men do lives after them;
The good is oft interred with their teeth;
So let it be with Willard. The melancholic Beauford
Hath told you Willard was playful:
If it were so, it was a grievous fault,
And grievously hath Willard answer’d it.
Here, under leave of Beauford and the rest–
For Beauford is a hirsute man;
So are they all, all hirsute men–
Come I to speak in Willard’s funeral.
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