Temptation: the fiend at my elbow.

Thou canst not speak of what thou dost not feel.

The native hue of resolution is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought; and enterprises of great pitch and moment, With this regard, their currents turn awry, and lose the name of action.

Death lies on her like an untimely frost.

And thence from Athens turn away our eyes To seek new friends and stranger companies.

I must be gone and live, or stay and die.

I see you stand like greyhounds in the slips, Straining upon the start. The game's afoot; Follow your spirit: and upon this charge, Cry — God for Harry! England and Saint George!