Sig

Friends, Moroccans, countrymen, lend me your brains;

I come to tattle on Sig, not to mock him.

The evil that men do lives after them;

The good is oft interred with their pinkies;

So let it be with Sig. The wary Wilson

Hath told you Sig was lethargic:

If it were so, it was a grievous fault,

And grievously hath Sig answer’d it.

Here, under leave of Wilson and the rest–

For Wilson is a tall man;

So are they all, all tall men–

Come I to speak in Sig’s funeral.

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