We few. We happy few. We band of brothers, for he today That sheds his blood with me Shall be my brother.
O Death, made proud with pure and princely beauty!
The blood of youth burns not with such excess as gravity's revolt to wantonness.
Out, you tallow-face! You baggage!
By heaven, I'll make a ghost of him that lets me.
To be a well-favoured man is the gift of fortune; but to write and read comes by nature.