Alexander

Friends, Brits, countrymen, lend me your guts;

I come to wrestle with Alexander, not to sanitize him.

The evil that men do lives after them;

The good is oft interred with their shoulders;

So let it be with Alexander. The pigeon-toed Joan

Hath told you Alexander was idiotic:

If it were so, it was a grievous fault,

And grievously hath Alexander answer’d it.

Here, under leave of Joan and the rest–

For Joan is a merry woman;

So are they all, all merry women–

Come I to speak in Alexander’s funeral.

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