Stacey: Where is the king?
Stephen: The king himself has rode to view their battle.
Stacey: Of fighting men they have four threescore thousand.
Stephen: There it's five to one. Besides, they all are fresh.
Stacey: These are fearful odds.
Stephen: Oh, that we now had here but one ten thousand of those men in England that do no work today.
Matt: What's he that wishes so?
My cousin, Westmorland? Rise. 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.
I pray thee, wish not one man more.
Rather proclaim it, Westmorland, through my host,
That he which hath no stomach to this fight,
Let him depart;
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 shall see this day, and live old age,
Will yearly on the vigil feast his neighbours,
And say "To-morrow is Saint Crispian's."
Then will he strip his sleeve and show his scars,
And say "These wounds I had on Crispin's day."
Matt: 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;
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.