(Compiled circa 1990, before computers did the heavy quote-lifting)
Shakespeare never wrote about cricket; although Lady Macbeth does say, “I hear the owls scream and the crickets cry.” But all we have to do is quote him out of context, and the Bard will be screaming and crying in his grave:
MERELY PLAYERS
Well play’d. Almost six. Near-legged before. Not out. Played on? Alas! … Lad; go forward. For God defend. Take advantage of the field. By ones, by twos, and by threes. These profound heaves. Cannot take two. One short. You beg a single. He will not run. Why, what a rascal. Well placed. Dangerous shot. The bat hath flown. I will bring the doctor about by the fields. Make thee a pair, and I’ll bring thee to the court myself. Duck again. There is three umpires in this matter. Will you walk, sir?
All the men and women merely players.
At the orchard-end. Dost thou, chuck? Such odd action. Ridiculous and awkward. Sir; that were fast and loose. So wide? By ten mile. Indifferency, From all direction, purpose, course, intent. O’erstep not. O! no, no, no, no. My lord, you played once i’ the university, you say?
Yonder i’ the sun practising. Lies tangled in a net.
I come to draw. My gloves are on. I boldly will defend. Shall be a wall. Pray you, stand further from me. I beseech thee, apparel thy head. The better face. What a pitch. A touch, a touch, I do confess. If you love me, hold not. I have receiv’d a second life. Who knows how that may turn. Oft have I struck Those that I never saw. Faith, I ran when I saw others run. Seems far too short to hit me here. Borrowed a box. I would have swing’d him. I can hook. I pull in resolution. I could with bare-fac’d power sweep him from my sight. Will turn it finely. Did glance away from me. Again, it was not well cut. No stroke. Thrice beaten. Over. Maiden. Fetch my bail. Left nothing i’ the middle. Who is it in the press that calls on me?
Not, while I have a stump.
A moderate pace I have. But though slow, deadly. Natural the cutter-off. The turn or the breaking. With all the cunning manner of our flight. Coming down the hill will serve the turn. Cur! thou driv’st me past the bounds. No maiden. What, four? thou saidst but two even now.
The wrong side out.
Those centuries to our aid. Spurio, a hundred and fifty; Sebastian, so many; Corambus, … Jacques, … Guiltian, Cosmo, Lodowick, and Gratii, … Chitopher, Vaumond, Bentii, two hundred fifty each. He is enforced to retire. Twelve for nine. In eternal darkness folded up. Offer’d light. Come.
Thump! Eleven die nobly for their country.
Another bad match. Here’s no scoring. Some death more long in spectatorship. One stroke has taken For ever. Look you now, he’s out of his guard already. These villains make the word captain as odious as the word ‘occupy’.
They seem to threaten Runs. Needless shot, after such bloody toil. Like a brib’d duck, each. He thought to steal the single. That makes a still-stand, running neither way. Naught, naught, all naught! I can behold no longer. At an infinite rate. What a pair of spectacles. This is the bloodiest shame, the wildest savagery, the vilest stroke. So find we profit By losing. Coach after coach.
There comes with them a forerunner.
I, Costard, running out.
He rather means to lodge you in the field. Thou then to cover. This is the third man. Cardinal Beaufort is at point. I see you stand like greyhounds in the slips. Where art thou, keeper? Deeper than you can imagine. Prithee, bring him in. Let them all encircle him about. All on one side. This wide gap. Pow. Here lies the point. He looks out. How! Boisterous late appeal. How needless was it then to ask the question! Make a swift return. We are like to have the overthrow again. There has been much throwing about. I aim a mile beyond.
Shall not know my coin.
George of Clarence sweeps.
Send after the duke and appeal to him.
He was wont to shine. I fear too much rubbing. A double varnish.
Come to our pavilion.
This blessed league. Surrey for the field to-morrow. Of Gloucester, How joyful am I made by this contract! I’ll make the best in Gloster-shire. Gloucester, led by an old Man. I am more inclined to Somerset than York. Somerset will keep me here, without discharge, money, or furniture.
Clubs cannot part them.
Enter Gower, Exeunt Gower and … The English power is near, led on by Malcolm. Pardon old Gower. Fight, gentlemen of England! fight, bold yeomen! Draw. Stands empty in the drowned field.
No supporter but the huge firm.
God himself; the very opener.
His companion, youthful Valentine.
Ye squeak out your coziers’ catches.
Look in the almanack; find out.
Cracking ten thousand.
Grace? that old white-bearded Satan …
Ashes ancient.
Topless deputation.
Why, it carries. It came too suddenly. It is quite beyond mine arm. Seem’d i’ the air to stick.
Welcome, ass. Now let’s have a catch. Both your hands: Now join your hands. You may take him at your pleasure; I will be near to second your attempt, and he shall fall between us. By heav’n, I’ll have’t. Yours, yours. Take it; ’tis yours. I heard groan and drop. Escap’d our hands. Your attempt, as you call it, deserves more–a punishment too.
For suddenly a grievous sickness took him, That makes him gasp and stare, and catch the air. Guilty of this lamentable chance. When he caught it, he let it go again. Spills another.
We cannot hold. Things fall out.
great post as usual!
Average comment as usual.