To New York! Who is with me?

[rasqual]

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!


[well . . . this couldn't wait till October 25 ;-]

When the armies have assembled, I shall nominate the bugler present, who shall appoint the bloody time with his clarion!

[elk-tamer]

What intel do we have on the army sizes there?

[rasqual]

Originally Posted by elk-tamer

What intel do we have on the army sizes there?

Good grief.

LOL

Now *that* would have been an anticlimactic line of comic relief in Henry V. But the timing would have been terrible.

This is the End Of All Things, friend. New York shall be the death of old tyrannies! Befriend anew the courage that led you to this world, and take up sword to strike down those who would rule it as despots and lords over your very souls! To death, I say, rather than . . . . er, there's the phone. Just a sec . . . dang, gotta go, uh . . .

[War_Peace]

You are going mad, you know that don't you?

[His Lord Uberdude]

Originally Posted by War_Peace

You are going mad, you know that don't you?

At least he's doing with class.
And I'd be there, but I wouldn't be of much use. And I'm kinda tied up holding on to one city.

[rasqual]

No one? I'm going out alone?

:::sigh:::

Very well. This is not Henry V. Wrong era. I should have evoked Cervantes, not Shakespeare. :-/

"Look yonder, friend Sancho," he cries, "Fortune has provided me with thirty or forty giants to encounter. When they are dead we may claim the lawful spoils of our conquest!"

Whither, anon!

[Nilla]

Originally Posted by rasqual

Whither, anon!

It twas a good effort
you took out many of my boyzzz in the hood
but they're not from NYC, they're from compton.

[anthonywitt]

Originally Posted by rasqual

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!


[well . . . this couldn't wait till October 25 ;-]

When the armies have assembled, I shall nominate the bugler present, who shall appoint the bloody time with his clarion!

Well said Rasqual. I think I have heard this before (chuckle).

[Roger Andrew]

Never in the field of human endeavour has so many been ... so phew!