King Henry V
Once more unto the trench, dear friends, once more!
The death of our dear friends we see today,
And by my troth their souls shall be aveng’d!
I was not angry since I came to space
Until this instant! Strike at us and thou
Shalt know the power of the Force, thou brute,
Thou Empire full of hate and evil deeds.
Aye, pluck us down and we shall rise again--
Our cause is not alone for these good men
Who here were kill’d today. Our cause is not
Alone for those on Alderaan who died.
Our cause is for truth, for righteousness,
For anyone who e’er oppression knew.
‘Tis not rebellion for the sake of one,
‘Tis not a cause to serve a priv’led’d few--
This moment shall resound in history
For ev’ry person who would freedom know!
So Biggs, stand with me now, and be my aide,
And Wedge, fly at my side to lead the charge--
We three, we happy three, we band of brothers,
Shall fly unto the trench with throttles full!
Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more;
Or close the wall up with our English dead.
In peace there’s nothing so becomes a man
As modest stillness and humility:
But when the blast of war blows in our ears,
Then imitate the action of the tiger;
Stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood,
Disguise fair nature with hard-favour’d rage;
Then lend the eye a terrible aspect;
Let pry through the portage of the head
Like the brass cannon; let the brow o’erwhelm it
As fearfully as doth a galled rock
O’erhang and jutty his confounded base,
Swill’d with the wild and wasteful ocean.
Now set the teeth and stretch the nostril wide,
Hold hard the breath and bend up every spirit
To his full height. On, on, you noblest English.
Whose blood is fet from fathers of war-proof!
Fathers that, like so many Alexanders,
Have in these parts from morn till even fought
And sheathed their swords for lack of argument:
Dishonour not your mothers; now attest
That those whom you call’d fathers did beget you.
Be copy now to men of grosser blood,
And teach them how to war. And you, good yeoman,
Whose limbs were made in England, show us here
The mettle of your pasture; let us swear
That you are worth your breeding; which I doubt not;
For there is none of you so mean and base,
That hath not noble lustre in your eyes.
I see you stand like greyhounds in the slips,
Straining upon the start. The game’s afoot:
Follow your spirit, and upon this charge
Cry ‘God for Harry, England, and Saint George!’