To grind great Dartmouth in the mire."
Exit Hamlet Harlow to sleep! Perchance to dream of an undefeated team--ay, there's the rub. But come the ides of November, and 'ere long even the Bulldog which barks at Yale, Sirrah, may be muzzled by the Crimson gale.
Enter Caesar Harlow after season undefeated, muttering miserably
Of thrice being presented a kingly crown
Which he did thrice refuse. Was this ambition?
For even should Fair Harvard all games claim
There'll still be no Rose Bowl fame;
Neither Sugar, Orange nor Cotton;
Save the Blues Bowl, all else forgotten;
'Tis an Ivy rule firm and fast
That football seasons only last
Until their courses have been run. Nor can it be undone.
But let us hope for Dartmouth's Indians
Harvard men will increase
As they did for Falstaff so obese.
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