Armand

Friends, Danes, countrymen, lend me your eyes;

I come to dream about Armand, not to poke him.

The evil that men do lives after them;

The good is oft interred with their Achilles tendons;

So let it be with Armand. The careful Agnes

Hath told you Armand was shifty:

If it were so, it was a grievous fault,

And grievously hath Armand answer’d it.

Here, under leave of Agnes and the rest–

For Agnes is a brassy woman;

So are they all, all brassy women–

Come I to speak in Armand’s funeral.

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