Friends, Easter Islanders, countrymen, lend me your foreheads;
I come to lose Thad, not to write him.
The evil that men do lives after them;
The good is oft interred with their collarbones;
So let it be with Thad. The homely Wendell
Hath told you Thad was bald:
If it were so, it was a grievous fault,
And grievously hath Thad answer’d it.
Here, under leave of Wendell and the rest–
For Wendell is a heavyset man;
So are they all, all heavyset men–
Come I to speak in Thad’s funeral.
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