As this is a very special day, the 400th anniversary of his passing, can we have a thread devoted to the great man that is open just for one day where people can put in their favourite quote from a play, his poems. For those clever enough they can use a Shakespeare metaphor for a particular footballing moment. Thanks!!
HENRY BOLINGBROKE taken from Richard 2, a play that I studied at O level many decades ago. Look, what I speak, my life shall prove it true; That Mowbray hath received eight thousand nobles In name of lendings for your highness' soldiers, The which he hath detain'd for lewd employments, Like a false traitor and injurious villain. Besides I say and will in battle prove, Corruption. The former PM of the Balears is inside. The story goes that she awarded her husband's construction company the right to build roundabouts here.
One for the boys this afternoon: KING RONALD: Once more to Villa Park, dear friends, once more; And close the goal up with our fans' stale pies. In summer there's nothing so becomes a man As modest stillness and humility: But when the blast of football blows in our ears, Then imitate the action of the tiger; Stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood, Disguise fair nature with hard-favour'd rage; Then lend the eye a terrible aspect; Let pry through the portage of the head Like the brass cannon; let the brow o'erwhelm it As fearfully as doth a galled rock O'erhang and jutty his confounded base, Swill'd with the wild and wasteful ocean. Now set the teeth and stretch the nostril wide, Hold hard the breath and bend up every spirit To his full height. On, on, you noblest Saints Whose blood is fet from fathers of war-proof! Fathers that, like so many McMenemys Have in these parts from morn till even fought And sheathed their swords for lack of argument: Dishonour not your mothers; now attest That those whom you call'd fathers did beget you. Be copy now to men of grosser blood, And teach them how to war. And you, good yeoman, Whose limbs were made in Staplewood, show us here The mettle of your pasture; let us swear That you are worth your breeding; which I doubt not; For there is none of you so mean and base, That hath not noble lustre in your eyes. I see you stand like greyhounds in the slips, Straining upon the start. The game's afoot: Follow your spirit, and upon this charge Cry 'God for Ronald, England, and Saint George!'
Toby, or not Toby, that was the question: Whether 'tis nobler in defence to suffer The shots and passes of outrageous wingplay, Or to take arms against a sea of crosses And by opposing clear them. To foul—to err, No more; and by a foul to say we end The attack and the thousand scoring shots That Fonte is heir to: 'tis a consummation Devoutly to be wish'd. To head, to kick; To head, Van Dyke to dream—ay, there's the rub: For in that cross of Prowse what dreams may come, When we have shuffled off his markers arm, Must give us goals—there's the respect That makes calamity of football life.
Like I did. Easily done when you're desperate and hanging on to a heaving boat. Only did it once though.
Who could forget Kenneth Williams' brilliant portrayal of Julius Caesar in the bard's adaptation of Carry on Cleo.
Anyone watched on bbc2 tonight Shakespeare Live from the Stratford theatre ? Got to say I have enjoyed from start to finish......(even though meant to finish at 10.30 and it's running over ) quite brilliant.
