"Love thyself last: cherish those hearts that hate thee; Corruption wins not more than honesty. Still in thy right hand carry gentle peace, To silence envious tongues. Be just, and fear not: Let all the ends thou aim’st at, be thy country’s, Thy God’s, and truth’s; then if thou fall’st, O Cromwell, Thou fall’st a blessed martyr!"

"I charge thee, fling away ambition; By that sin fell the angels."

"Say, Wolsey, — that once trod the ways of glory, And sounded all the depths and shoals of honour, — Found thee a way, out of his wreck, to rise in; A sure and safe one, though thy master miss'd it."

"And sleep in dull cold marble."

"A load would sink a navy, — too much honour."

"I feel within me A peace above all earthly dignities, A still and quiet conscience."

"Farewell! a long farewell, to all my greatness! This is the state of man: to-day he puts forth The tender leaves of hope; to-morrow blossoms, And bears his blushing honours thick upon him; The third day comes a frost, a killing frost, And, — when he thinks, good easy man, full surely His greatness is a-ripening, — nips his root, And then he falls, as I do. I have ventur'd, Like little wanton boys that swim on bladders, This many summers in a sea of glory, But far beyond my depth: my high-blown pride At length broke under me; and now has left me, Weary and old with service, to the mercy Of a rude stream, that must forever hide me. Vain pomp and glory of this world, I hate ye! I feel my heart new open'd. O, how wretched Is that poor man that hangs on princes’ favours! There is, betwixt that smile we would aspire to, That sweet aspect of princes, and their ruin, More pangs and fears than wars or women have; And when he falls, he falls like Lucifer, Never to hope again."

"Press not a falling man too far!"

"I have touch'd the highest point of all my greatness; And, from that full meridian of my glory, I haste now to my setting: I shall fall Like a bright exhalation in the evening, And no man see me more."

"Read o'er this; And after, this: and then to breakfast with What appetite you have."

"'Tis well said again, And 'tis a kind of good deed to say well; And yet, words are no deeds."

"Orpheus, with his lute, made trees, And the mountain-tops that freeze, Bow themselves when he did sing."

"'Tis better to be lowly born, And range with humble livers in content, Than to be perk'd up in a glistering grief, And wear a golden sorrow."

"This bold bad man."

"The mirror of all courtesy."

"'Tis but the fate of place, and the rough brake That virtue must go through."

"Heat not a furnace for your foe so hot That it do singe yourself."

"Be to yourself As you would to your friend."

"Anger is like A full-hot horse, who being allow’d his way, Self-mettle tires him."

"No man’s pie is freed From his ambitious finger."

"Order gave each thing view."

"Dear Kate, you and I cannot be confined within the weak list of a country's fashion: we are the makers of manners, Kate."

"If he be not fellow with the best king, thou shalt find the best king of good fellows."

"A fair face will wither; a full eye will wax hollow: but a good heart, Kate, is the sun and the moon; or, rather, the sun and not the moon; for it shines bright, and never changes, but keeps his course truly. If thou would have such a one, take me: and take me, take a soldier; take a soldier, take a king: and what say'st thou then to my love? Speak, my fair, and fairly, I pray thee."

"All hell shall stir for this!"

"An arrant traitor, as any's in the universal 'orld, or in France, or in England."

"O God! Thy arm was here, And not to us, but to Thy arm alone, Ascribe we all."

"There is a river in Macedon; and there is also moreover a river at Monmouth;... and there is salmons in poth."

"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 outlives this day, and sees old age, Will yearly on the vigil feast his friends, And say, "To-morrow is Saint Crispian;" Then will he strip his sleeve, and show his scars, And say, "These wounds I had on Crispin'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 remember'd. This story shall the good man teach his son; And Crispian shall ne'er go by From this day to the ending of the world, But we in it shall be remember'd, — 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 Crispian's day."

"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."

"If we are mark'd to die, we are enough 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."

"Such a wretch, Winding up days with toil, and nights with sleep, Had the fore-hand and vantage of a king."

"The wretched slave, Who, with a body fill'd, and vacant mind, Gets him to rest, cramm'd with distressful bread."

"That’s a perilous shot out of an elder-gun."

"Every subject’s duty is the king’s; but every subject’s soul is his own."

"There is some soul of goodness in things evil, Would men observingly distil it out."

"The King’s a bawcock, and a heart of gold, A lad of life, an imp of fame; Of parents good, of fist most valiant. I kiss his dirty shoe, and from heart-string I love the lovely bully."

"The hum of either army stilly sounds, That the fix'd sentinels almost receive The secret whispers of each other’s watch. Fire answers fire, and through their paly flames Each battle sees the other’s umber'd face: Steed threatens steed, in high and boastful neighs Piercing the night’s dull ear; and from the tents, The armourers, accomplishing the knights, With busy hammers closing rivets up, Give dreadful note of preparation."

"You may as well say, — that’s a valiant flea that dare eat his breakfast on the lip of a lion."

"I thought, upon one pair of English legs Did march three Frenchmen."

"For when lenity and cruelty play for a kingdom, the gentler gamester is the soonest winner."

"This is the latest parle we will admit: Therefore to our best mercy give yourselves, Or, like to men proud of destruction, Defy us to our worst: for, as I am a soldier, (A name, that, in my thoughts, becomes me best,) If I begin the battery once again, I will not leave the half-achieved Harfleur, Till in her ashes she lie buried. The gates of mercy shall be all shut up, And the flesh'd soldier, rough and hard of heart, In liberty of bloody hand, shall range With conscience wide as hell; mowing like grass Your fresh-fair virgins and your flowering infants. What is it then to me, if impious War, Array'd in flames, like to the prince of fiends, Do, with his smirch'd complexion, all fell feats Enlink'd to waste and desolation? What is't to me, when you yourselves are cause, If your pure maidens fall into the hand Of hot and forcing violation? What rein can hold licentious wickedness, When down the hill he holds his fierce career? We may as bootless spend our vain command Upon the enraged soldiers in their spoil, As send precepts to the Leviathan To come ashore. Therefore, you men of Harfleur, Take pity of your town, and of your people, Whiles yet my soldiers are in my command; Whiles yet the cool and temperate wind of grace O'erblows the filthy and contagious clouds Of deadly murder, spoil, and villainy. If not, why, in a moment, look to see The blind and bloody soldier, with foul hand, Defile the locks of your shrill-shrieking daughters; Your fathers taken by the silver beards, And their most reverend heads dash'd to the walls; Your naked infants spitted upon pikes, Whiles the mad mothers with their howls confus'd Do break the clouds, as did the wives of Jewry At Herod's bloody-hunting slaughtermen. What say you? Will you yield, and this avoid? Or, guilty in defence, be thus destroy'd?"

"Men of few words are the best men."

"I would give all my fame for a pot of ale, and safety."