Mirabel

Friends, Hungarians, countrymen, lend me your veins;

I come to believe in Mirabel, not to correct her.

The evil that men do lives after them;

The good is oft interred with their chests;

So let it be with Mirabel. The petulant Gabe

Hath told you Mirabel was talkative:

If it were so, it was a grievous fault,

And grievously hath Mirabel answer’d it.

Here, under leave of Gabe and the rest–

For Gabe is an articulate man;

So are they all, all articulate men–

Come I to speak in Mirabel’s funeral.

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