Friends, Belgians, countrymen, lend me your belly buttons;
I come to annoy George, not to trick him.
The evil that men do lives after them;
The good is oft interred with their lips;
So let it be with George. The wizened Sinclair
Hath told you George was high-strung:
If it were so, it was a grievous fault,
And grievously hath George answer’d it.
Here, under leave of Sinclair and the rest–
For Sinclair is a jolly man;
So are they all, all jolly men–
Come I to speak in George’s funeral.
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