what's
he that wishes so?
My cousin,
Westmoreland? No, my fair cousin;
If we are
mark'd to die, we are enough
To do our
country loss; and if to live,
The fewer
men, the greater share of honour.
God's
will! I pray thee, wish not one man more.
By Jove, I am
not covetous for gold,
Nor care I
who doth feed upon my cost;
It yearns me
not if men my garments wear;
Such outward
things dwell not in my desires.
But if it be
a sin to covet honour,
I am the most
offending soul alive.
No, faith, my
coz, wish not a man from England.
God's peace!
I would not lose so great an honour
As one man
more methinks would share from me
For the best
hope I have. O, do not wish one more!
Rather proclaim it, Westmorland, through my host,
That he which hath no stomach to this fight,
Let him depart; his passport shall be made,
And crowns for convoy put into his purse;
We would not die in that man's company
That fears his fellowship to die with us.
This day is called the feast of Crispian:
He that outlives this day, and comes safe home,
Will stand a tip-toe when this day is named,
And rouse him at the name of Crispian.
He that shall see this day and live old age,
Will yearly on the vigil feast his neighbours,
And say 'To-morrow is Saint Crispin's':
Then will he strip his sleeve and show his scars.
And say 'These wounds I had on Crispin's day.'
Old men forget: yet all shall be forgot,
But he'll remember with advantages
What feats he did that day.
Then shall our names,
Familiar in their mouths as household words,
Harry the king,
Bedford and Exeter,
Warwick and Talbot,
Salisbury and Gloucester,
Be in their flowing cups freshly remember'd.
This story shall the good man teach his son;
And Crispin Crispian shall ne'er go by,
From this day to the ending of the world,
But we in it shall be remember'd;
We few, we happy few, we band of brothers;
For he to-day that sheds his blood with me
Shall be my brother; be he ne'er so vile,
This day shall gentle his condition:
And gentlemen in England now a-bed
Shall think themselves accursed they were not here,
And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks
That fought with us upon Saint Crispin's day!
Note: Fictional speech written by William Shakespeare (1599) in Henry V, Act 4, Scene 3
