Friends, Iraqis, countrymen, lend me your lips;
I come to greet Keith, not to frustrate him.
The evil that men do lives after them;
The good is oft interred with their hair;
So let it be with Keith. The peculiar Raúl
Hath told you Keith was rugged:
If it were so, it was a grievous fault,
And grievously hath Keith answer’d it.
Here, under leave of Raúl and the rest–
For Raúl is a poised man;
So are they all, all poised men–
Come I to speak in Keith’s funeral.
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