O, what men dare do!
Ah, poor Eliot, hoisted with his own petard. A sorry sight. Our knight in shining armor, the noblest of them all, the future prince with a lean and hungry look. Or...was he done to death by slanderous tongue, victim of a murderous plot? Is it much ado about nothing?
Oh Eliot, Eliot. One that loved not wisely but too well. So sweet was ne'er so fatal. Some Cupid kills with arrows, some with traps. Were you a victim of your own success? Snared in a Machiavellian plot?
And your enemies declare; He hath give his empire up to a whore! Or is it a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing?
Ah, what a piece of work is a man! Sigh no more, ladies, sigh no more, men were deceivers ever. Perhaps soon we will extract our pound of flesh.
Dear Eliot, parting is truly such sweet sorrow...you were our hopes and dreams. Tomorrow, tomorrow and tomorrow shall we finally hear "Friends, countrymen, lend me your ears"?
So what say’th you, ladies? Are our lord Eliot’s peccadillos just human nature? Or as some have suggested, just a poor lonely man in need of a hug? Doth the lady simply protest too much?
I say, more in sorrow than in anger, Off with his Head! (and other body parts as well perhaps!)