Hal, if I tell thee a lie, spit in my face, call me horse.
Woe to that land that's governed by a child.
Although the last, not least.
Did he so often lodge in open field, In winter's cold and summer's parching heat, To conquer France, his true inheritance?
Yea from the table of my memory I'll wipe away all trivial fond records.
By-and-by is easily said.