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.

We cannot all be masters, nor all masters Cannot be truly followed.

Wilt thou whip thine own faults in other men?

The gloomy shade of death.

I have a soul of lead So stakes me to the ground I cannot move.

In thy face I see the map of honour, truth and loyalty.

Fortune reigns in gifts of the world.