Once more unto the breach dear friend, once more;
Or close up the court with our English dead!
For he today that shares blood with thee
shall be thy brother on the BBC..
And gentlemen of England, now a-bed
Shall think themselves accursed they were not there,
To fight with thee upon St Crispin's day.
This blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this Wimbledon
This land fit for heroes, this finest hour, this paradise..
Stiffen thy sinews, summon up thy blood,
Disguise fair nature with hard favoured rage;
Then lend the eye a terrible aspect.
For we are such stuff as dreams are made
And England expects!