The tongues of dying men enforce attention like deep harmony.
They are hare-brain'd slaves.
What is aught but as 'tis valued?
Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more; Or close the wall with our English dead.
By my soul I swear, there is no power in the tongue of man to alter me.
'Sblood, you starveling, you elf-skin, you dried neat's tongue, you bull's pizzle, you stock-fish! O for breath to utter what is like thee! you tailor's-yard, you sheath, you bowcase; you vile standing-tuck!