Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more.
We few, we happy few, we band of brothers.
O God of battles! steel my soldiers’ hearts.
He which hath no stomach to this fight, let him depart.
Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more.
I would give all my fame for a pot of ale.
The fewer men, the greater share of honor.
I fear thou wilt once more come again for a ransom.
I am not covetous for gold, nor care I who doth feed upon my cost.
Ceremony was but devised at first to set a gloss on faint deeds.
When lenity and cruelty play for a kingdom, the gentler gamester is the soonest winner.
O Kate, nice customs curtsey to great kings.
Once more I come to know of thee, King Harry.
The King’s a bawcock, and a heart of gold.
No king of England, if not king of France.
There is some soul of goodness in things evil.
He hath eaten me out of house and home.
I know not whether God will have it so for some displeasing service I have done.
I see you stand like greyhounds in the slips, straining upon the start.
We are in God’s hand, brothers, not in theirs.
I have a jest to execute that I cannot manage alone.
We thought, because we had no other men, the King would offer us fair play.
There is some soul of goodness in things evil.
He’s in his retirement marvellous distempered.
Show us the hand of God that bends the heavens.
He did look far into the service of the time.
What’s he that wishes so?
I, that denied thee gold, will give my heart.
Upon this charge Charles had both the Antipodes.
Men of few words are the best men.
For so work the honey bees, creatures that by a rule in nature teach the act of order to a peopled kingdom.
And villainous company hast thou kept; Hast thou not kissed thy hand and held my stirrup?
Thou wear a lion’s hide! doff it for shame.
I think the king is but a man, as I am.
O, where hath our intelligence been drunk?
He is pure air and fire, and the dull elements of earth and water never appear in him.
When thou didst crown his warlike brows with paper.
Got with much ease, though with more noise.
The king’s a bawcock, and a heart of gold.
Till then, fair boy, will I not think of home, But follow arms.
If I be crowned, you shall possess the crown.
To pluck from this dread land the annoying scourge of men.
But, since corrected earbasing, and aim, and dangerous nearness of the enemy.
This is the happy warrior; this is he. That every man in arms should wish to be.
Yet I do thee wrong to mind thee of it, for thou art framed of the firm truth of valour.
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