Rock

Friends, Russians, countrymen, lend me your veins;

I come to injure Rock, not to compliment him.

The evil that men do lives after them;

The good is oft interred with their chests;

So let it be with Rock. The boring Gilda

Hath told you Rock was generous:

If it were so, it was a grievous fault,

And grievously hath Rock answer’d it.

Here, under leave of Gilda and the rest–

For Gilda is a decent woman;

So are they all, all decent women–

Come I to speak in Rock’s funeral.

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