It yearns me not, if men my gar

ments wear:

Such outer things dwell not in my desires:

But, if it be a sin to covet honor,
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 honor,

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 who 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 on tip-toe when this day is

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

Will yearly on the vigil feast his friends,

And say-To-morrow is Saint Crispian:

Then will he strip his sleeves, 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,

named,

And rouse him at the name of Crispian:

Familiar in their mouths as household words,

Harry the king, Bedford, and Exeter, Warwick and Talbot, Salisbury and Gloster,

Be in their flowing cups freshly remembered:

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 rememberèd: 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 abed,

Shall think themselves accursed they were not here,

And

hold their manhood cheap, while any speaks

That fought with us upon Saint Crispin's day.

SHAKSPEARE.

Not half so fearful;-not a flight drawn home, A round stone from a sling, a lover's wish,

E'er made that haste they have. By heavens!

I have seen these Britons that you magnify,

Run as they would have out-run time, and roaring,

Basely for mercy, roaring; the light shadows,

That in a thought scour o'er the fields of corn,

Halted on crutches to them. Yes,
Bonduca,

I have seen thee run too, and thee,
Nennius;
Yea, run apace, both; then when
Penyus,

The Roman girl, cut through your armed carts,

And drove them headlong on ye down the hill;