To putt it hard, to putt it soft, that is the question. To roll the pallid sphere, not knowing where perchance it may repose. Oh, vile green that hath such breaks upon it! Why dost thou punish men with such deception? In, in, sweet sphere, and flights of angels, speed thee to thy hole. Thou crude and speckless blob of rubber stuff, how canst thou come so close and still not fall?
Will you shut up?