Isaac

Friends, Kosovoans, countrymen, lend me your front teeth;

I come to push Isaac, not to damage him.

The evil that men do lives after them;

The good is oft interred with their pancreases;

So let it be with Isaac. The adorable White Cloud

Hath told you Isaac was hirsute:

If it were so, it was a grievous fault,

And grievously hath Isaac answer’d it.

Here, under leave of White Cloud and the rest–

For White Cloud is an articulate man;

So are they all, all articulate men–

Come I to speak in Isaac’s funeral.

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