Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more; Or bring on James Milner, to shore things up! In peace there’s nothing so becomes a man, As rubbing your face furiously on the bench; But when the blast of war blows in our ears, Then bring on James Milner to shore things up: Stiffen the sinews, conjure up the blood, Leave Jamie Vardy frustrated in a tabard: Then lend the eye a terrible aspect; Let it pry through the portage of the head, Like the brass cannon; let the brow o’erwhelm it As fearfully as watching Raheem Sterling Scuttle crablike into blind alley, Swill’d with the wild and wasteful opportunity. Now set the teeth and stretch the nostril wide; Hold hard the breath and bend up every spirit To his full height. On, on, you noblest English, I think I might bring on James Milner to shore things up! Fathers that, like so many Alexanders, Have in these parts from morn till even fought, And sheathed their swords for lack of argument. Dishonour not your mothers: now attest, That those whom you call’d fathers did beget you. Be copy now to men of grosser blood, And teach them how to bloody cross a ball. And you, good yeoman, Whose limbs were made in England, show us here The mettle of your pasture: let us swear That you are worth your breeding; which I doubt not; For there is none of you so mean and base, That hath not noble lustre in your eyes. I see you stand like greyhounds in the slips, Straining upon the start. Yet sit you down, Vardy, I seek dour industry instead The game’s afoot: Follow your spirit; and upon this charge, Cry ‘God why is Harry taking the corners? England! and Saint George!'