For Meed of all my Labour laid aside,
Ended alike the Player and the Play?
Behold, there is an Arm behind the Ball,
Nor the Bat's Stroke of its own Striking all;
And who the Gamesters, to what end the Game,
I think thereof our Willing is but small.
Against the Attack and Twist of Circumstance
Though I oppose Defence and shifty Glance,
What Power gives Nerve to me, and what Assaults,—
This is the Riddle. Let dull bats cry 'Chance.'