EPILOGUE
All the world’s a stage race,
And all the men and women merely players:
They have their exits and their entrances;
And one rider in their time plays many parts,
Their acts being seven ages. At first, the Junior,
Their mind fixed constant solely the win.
And then the Under-23, with his biting ambition
And shining morning face, tactically more astute
But jealous wi’it. And then the Stagiaire,
Contract hunter he, with a hopeful ballad
Made to his teammates service. Then a sprinter,
Full of cursed oaths and bearded like the pard,
Jealous in honour, sudden and quick in quarrel,
Seeking the bubble reputation
Even in the cannon’s mouth. And then the Domestique,
Well rounded with experience and life,
With eyes knowing and beard of formal cut,
Full of wise saws and modern instances;
And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts
Into the lean and slipper’d Director Sportive,
With spectacles on nose and pouch on side,
His youthful bibs, well saved, a world too wide
For his shrunk shank; and his big manly voice,
Turning again toward childish treble, pipes
And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all,
That ends this strange eventful history,
Is Team Management and mere oblivion,
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.
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