WESTMORELAND. O that we now
had here

    But one ten thousand of those men
in England

    That do no work to-day!

 

KING. What's he that wishes
so?

    My cousin Westmoreland? No, my fair
cousin;

    If we are mark'd to die, we are enow

    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, Westmoreland,
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 call'd the feast of Crispian.

    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 Crispian.

    He that shall live this day, and see
old age,

    Will yearly on the vigil feast his
neighbours,

    And say 'To-morrow is Saint Crispian.'

    Then will he strip his sleeve and
show his scars,

    And say 'These wounds I had on Crispian'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 his mouth as household
words-

    Harry the King, Bedford and Exeter,

    Warwick and Talbot, Salisbury and
Gloucester-

    Be in their flowing cups freshly rememb'red.

    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 remembered-

    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 accurs'd they
were not here,

    And hold their manhoods cheap whiles
any speaks

    That fought with us upon Saint Crispin's
day.