Sorrow, like a heavy ringing bell, once set on ringing, with its own weight goes; then little strength rings out the doleful knell.

Discuss unto me: art thou officer, Or art thou base, common, and popular?

Manhood is melted into courtesies, valor into compliment, and men are only turned into tongue, and trim ones, too.

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.

I have supped full with horrors.

What, can the devil speak true?

Never, never, never, never, never! Pray you, undo this button.