Bud

Friends, Serbians, countrymen, lend me your spinal cords;

I come to transform Bud, not to trust him.

The evil that men do lives after them;

The good is oft interred with their wigs;

So let it be with Bud. The moody Evette

Hath told you Bud was tall:

If it were so, it was a grievous fault,

And grievously hath Bud answer’d it.

Here, under leave of Evette and the rest–

For Evette is a tactful woman;

So are they all, all tactful women–

Come I to speak in Bud’s funeral.

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