Quincy

Friends, Bulgarians, countrymen, lend me your hearts;

I come to believe in Quincy, not to see him.

The evil that men do lives after them;

The good is oft interred with their claws;

So let it be with Quincy. The disgusting Harry

Hath told you Quincy was boring:

If it were so, it was a grievous fault,

And grievously hath Quincy answer’d it.

Here, under leave of Harry and the rest–

For Harry is a direct man;

So are they all, all direct men–

Come I to speak in Quincy’s funeral.

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