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Alas, poor Kordic! We slew him, Horatio, this fellow of infinite fist, of most pugnacious fancy. He hath borne this team on his back a thousand times, and now, how abhorrent in our present state it is! My gorge rises at it. Here hung his trophies that he hath kissed I know not how oft. —Where be your jabs now? Your gambles? Your goals? Your flashes of delirium that were wont to set the table on a roar? Not one now to mock your own grinning? Quite Habfallen? Now get you to my lady’s chamber and tell her, let her rouge be an inch thick, to this favor she must come. Make her laugh at that.
Begins at :23
Ryan White as IAGO:
Thus do I ever make my fool Flyers my purse.
For I mine own hab gained knowledge should profane
If I would time expend with such a sniper
but for my sport and contract. I hate the MT,
And it is thought abroad that ’twixt my shifts
He’s done my office. I know not if ’t be true,
But I, for mere suspicion in that coachkind,
Will do as if for surety. He taught me well.
The better shall my purpose work on him.
Daigneault’s a proper man. Let me see now,
To get to his place and to plume de ma tante his foyer
with double knavery. How? How? Let’s see.
After some time, to abuse Old Geoff’s ear
That he is too familiar with his wife.
He hath a person and a smooth dispose
To be suspected, framed to make women false.
The Team is of a free and open nature
That thinks men honest that but seem to be so,
And will as tenderly be led by th' nose
As asses are.
I have it.
**BEGIN VIDEO AT :25 SECOND MARK**
Geoff Molson as Prospero:
Our signatory revels now are ended. These our players,
As I foretold you, were all Forum ghosts, and
Are melted into air, into thin air;
And, like the baseless fabric of this vision,
The cloud-capped condominiums, the gorgeous palaces,
The solemn temples, the great 24 in the Montreal Forum itself,
Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve;
And, like this insubstantial pageant faded,
Leave not our Stanley desires behind. We Habs are such stuff
As dreams are made on, and our little life
Is rounded with a sleep.
Rick Dudley: O that we now had here
But one ten more millions of our allotted cap space!
Alas! That will not work to-day!
KING MB: What’s he that wishes so?
My cousin Rick Dudley? No, my fair cousin;
If we are mark’d to die, we hath spent enow
To do our colours loss; and if to win,
The fewer men, the greater share of honour.
God’s will! I pray thee, wish not one sou more.
Rather proclaim it, my Dudley, through my host,
That he which hath no stomach to this fight,
Let him depart; his passport shall be made,
And a Leaf fan forever be his curse!
We would not die in that man’s company
That fears his fellowship to die with us.
This day is call’d the feast of PK Subban.
He that outlives this day, and comes safe home,
Will stand a tip-toe when this day is nam’d,
And rouse him at the name of PK Subban.
He that shall live this day, and see old age,
Will yearly on the vigil feast his neighbours,
And say “To-morrow is PK Subban’s.”
Then will he strip his sleeve and show his CH tattoo,
And say “This tat I had done on Subban’s day.”
Old fans forget; yet all shall be forgot,
But they’ll remember, with advantages,
What posts he tapped out that day. Then shall our names,
Familiar in his mouth as household words-
Bergevin the King, Timmins and Mellanby,
Lacroix and Daigneault, and bonny Michel Therrien-
Be in their flowing Cups freshly rememb’red.
This story shall the good fans teach their sons;
And PK Subban Day shall ne’er go by,
From this day to the ending of our world.
But we in it shall be remembered-
We few, we Habby few, we band of brothers;
For all to-day that sheds his opinions with me
Shall be my brother; be he ne’er so vile,
This day shall gentle his disposition;
And gentle people of Habland now-a-bed
Shall think themselves accurs’d they were not here,
And not hold that Habs management was cheap whiles any speaks
That fought with us and Meehan upon PK Subban’s Day.