Doris

Friends, Czechs, countrymen, lend me your arteries;

I come to shake Doris, not to amuse her.

The evil that men do lives after them;

The good is oft interred with their adrenal glands;

So let it be with Doris. The sweet Penelope

Hath told you Doris was hungry:

If it were so, it was a grievous fault,

And grievously hath Doris answer’d it.

Here, under leave of Penelope and the rest–

For Penelope is a gregarious woman;

So are they all, all gregarious women–

Come I to speak in Doris’s funeral.

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