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Shakespearean Angels

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What fools these catchers be!

Dost thou not know how to squat?

How didst thou arrive at this unhappy moment

when thy bat can speak no longer,

for the sad decline in defense we doth observe in thee?


Sir Mathis, what sayest thou of him? Speak!


"My lord, I can only report what mine eyes prove clear.

He is a part-time player, no more and no less,

and his lot is to be traded for an aged veteran."


Yes, that is the sure end of his days with us.

Depart, pretender!

Let there be no mention of Napoli

in this happy realm any longer!

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To bunt, or not to bunt
That is the question.
Whether 'tis nobler to give up an out 
in the uncertain hope of a noisome rally 
or take up bats against a sea of breaking balls
in vain imaginings of extra-base hits.
What players be these, 
that wilt under the mention of a Norris,
or a Bedard, or any mortal man in the Houston rotation!
Who are they, from this grayish land of Texas,
who could freeze hearts so fast
and reduce our noble payroll to a quivering mess!

To bunt, perchance to win!

And then to feast at the banquet of delights.

To the clubhouse, quick, before the food is snatched from our sight!

To know this was not a dream

But a royal repast!

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Alas, poor bat. I knew ye.
An author of hits, of runs, of power. 
Thou hast done well, but now
the time is out of joint.
How abhorred in my imagination!
The ground ball in the infield dust
The weak pop fly, extinguishing all hope.
The strikeout, in measure without end.
Where are your hits now, your singles, your doubles, 
your home runs that were wont to set the crowd on a roar?
Not one now, to mock me with your label?
Slugger! My gorge rises at it.
What vanity, what unmitigated gall!


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