Elliott

Friends, Bermudans, countrymen, lend me your claws;

I come to annoy Elliott, not to play with her.

The evil that men do lives after them;

The good is oft interred with their stomachs;

So let it be with Elliott. The statuesque Herb

Hath told you Elliott was noble:

If it were so, it was a grievous fault,

And grievously hath Elliott answer’d it.

Here, under leave of Herb and the rest–

For Herb is a stinky man;

So are they all, all stinky men–

Come I to speak in Elliott’s funeral.

Next Chapter