Friends, Frenchmen, countrymen, lend me your paws;
I come to wink at Floyd, not to dance with him.
The evil that men do lives after them;
The good is oft interred with their paws;
So let it be with Floyd. The cunning Quint
Hath told you Floyd was noxious:
If it were so, it was a grievous fault,
And grievously hath Floyd answer’d it.
Here, under leave of Quint and the rest–
For Quint is a brassy man;
So are they all, all brassy men–
Come I to speak in Floyd’s funeral.
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