Of fervent suns doth bite and burn thee sore,
And blind thee, till, forgetful of thy lore,
Thou dost most mournfully misjudge a skyer,
And lose a match the gods cannot restore—
This is the end of every man’s desire!
The burden of loose bowling: when the stay
Of all thy team is collared—swift or slower—
When bowlers break not in the wonted way
And “yorkers” come not off as heretofore;
When length-balls shoot no more, ah! never more,