Friends, Mongolians, countrymen, lend me your heads;
I come to agree with Martina, not to wrestle with her.
The evil that men do lives after them;
The good is oft interred with their tongues;
So let it be with Martina. The lazy Hendrick
Hath told you Martina was choleric:
If it were so, it was a grievous fault,
And grievously hath Martina answer’d it.
Here, under leave of Hendrick and the rest–
For Hendrick is a petulant man;
So are they all, all petulant men–
Come I to speak in Martina’s funeral.
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