Cricket, however, has more in it than mere efficiency. There is something called the spirit of cricket, which cannot be defined.

The noonday quiet holds the hill.

A lie which is half a truth is ever the blackest of lies.

Old age hath yet his honour and his toil.

For now the poet cannot die, Nor leave his music as of old, But round him ere he scarce be cold Begins the scandal and the cry.

Though thou wert scattered to the wind, Yet is there plenty of the kind.

Knowledge comes, but wisdom lingers.