O, for a muse of fire, that would ascend the brightest heaven of invention,
A kingdom for a stage, princes to act and monarchs to behold the swelling scene!

Can this cockpit hold
The vasty fields of Castleview? Or may we cram within this wooden O, the very casques that did affright the air at  Newbottle?

Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more, came the cry at kick-off
Or close the wall up with our defence.

The game’s afoot:
Follow your spirit, and upon this charge cry ‘God for Harry, England, and Saint George!’

Men of few words are the best men as the boys lead at half time.

That’s a valiant flea that dare eat his breakfast on the lip of a lion, as the opposition pulls one back.

I think the lion is but a man, as I am: the violet smells to him as it doth to me.

Every player’s’s duty is the team’s, but every players soul is his own.

This story shall the good man teach his son, as the boys ran out winners.
From this day to the ending of the world, but we in it shall be remembered;
We few, we happy few, we band of brothers.
For he to-day that sheds his blood with me shall be my brother.

There is occasions and causes why and wherefore in all things, look up with head held high and on to the next with a leap into the sky

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