WESTMORELAND. O that we now had here
But one ten thousand of them in England
That do no work to-day!
What's they that wishes so?
My cousin, Westmoreland?
No, fair cousin.
If we are mark'd to die, we are enough to do our country loss,
Or if to live, the fewer of us, the greater share of honor.
God's will, I pray thee, wish not one of us more.
Rather, proclaim it, Westmoreland, through my host
That they which hath no stomach for this fight,
Let them depart.
Their passports shall be made and crowns for convoy put into their purse.
We would not die in that one's company that fears their fellowship to die with us.
Tomorrow is the feast of Crispian.
They that outlive this day and come safe home will stand a tip-toe when this day is named
And rouse them at the name of Crispian.
They that sees this day and lives t'old age shall yearly, on the vigil,
Feast their neighbors and say, "Tomorrow, is St. Crispian's"
Then will they strip their sleeves and show their scars
And say, "These wounds, I had on Crispin's Day"
The Old Ones forget, yet all shall be forgot, but they'll remember
With advantages, what feats they did that day!
Then will our names, familiar in their mouths as household words,
"Harry the King, Bedford and Exetor, Warwick and Talbott, Salsbury and Glouster"
Be in their flowing cups, freshly remembered.
This story, shall the Good One teach their child.
And Crispin Crispian shall n'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 comrades.
For them today that shed their blood with me shall be my comrade.
Be they ne'r so vile, this day shall gentle their condition.
And gentlefolk in England now abed
Shall think themselves accursed they were not here
And hold their values cheap
Whilst any speaks that fought with us upon St. Crispin's Day