For 'tis the sport to have the engineer Hoist with his own petar; and't shall go hard But I will delve one yard below their mines And blow them at the moon.

What's to come is still unsure: In delay there lies no plenty; Then come kiss me, sweet and twenty, Youth's a stuff will not endure.

We few. We happy few. We band of brothers, for he today That sheds his blood with me Shall be my brother.

Fruits that blossom first will first be ripe.

Though I be but prince of Wales, yet I am the king of courtesy.

When to the sessions of sweet silent thought I summon up remembrance of things past, I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought.

Britain is A world by itself, and we will nothing pay For wearing our own noses.