Howard

Friends, South Africans, countrymen, lend me your carotid arteries;

I come to stalk Howard, not to ignore him.

The evil that men do lives after them;

The good is oft interred with their lips;

So let it be with Howard. The moronic Lily

Hath told you Howard was stylish:

If it were so, it was a grievous fault,

And grievously hath Howard answer’d it.

Here, under leave of Lily and the rest–

For Lily is an irate woman;

So are they all, all irate women–

Come I to speak in Howard’s funeral.

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