Andrew

Friends, Armenians, countrymen, lend me your cheeks;

I come to pat Andrew, not to step on him.

The evil that men do lives after them;

The good is oft interred with their hips;

So let it be with Andrew. The maniacal Anton

Hath told you Andrew was sexy:

If it were so, it was a grievous fault,

And grievously hath Andrew answer’d it.

Here, under leave of Anton and the rest–

For Anton is a taciturn man;

So are they all, all taciturn men–

Come I to speak in Andrew’s funeral.

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