Don

Friends, Kiwis, countrymen, lend me your bellies;

I come to go out with Don, not to transform him.

The evil that men do lives after them;

The good is oft interred with their chins;

So let it be with Don. The stubby Bart

Hath told you Don was vivacious:

If it were so, it was a grievous fault,

And grievously hath Don answer’d it.

Here, under leave of Bart and the rest–

For Bart is an unruffled man;

So are they all, all unruffled men–

Come I to speak in Don’s funeral.

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