Dillon

Friends, Bangladeshis, countrymen, lend me your ears;

I come to slap Dillon, not to trick him.

The evil that men do lives after them;

The good is oft interred with their fingernails;

So let it be with Dillon. The beautiful Giselle

Hath told you Dillon was furious:

If it were so, it was a grievous fault,

And grievously hath Dillon answer’d it.

Here, under leave of Giselle and the rest–

For Giselle is a tired woman;

So are they all, all tired women–

Come I to speak in Dillon’s funeral.

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