From this day to the ending of the world, But we in it shall be remembered- We few, we happy few, we band of brothers; For he to-day that sheds his blood with me Shall be my brother; be he ne’er so vile, This day shall gentle his condition; 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.

Though age from folly could not give me freedom, It does from childishness.

Every why hath a wherefore.

Since mine own doors refuse to entertain me, I'll knock elsewhere, to see if they'll disdain me

Report of fashions in proud Italy Whose manners still our tardy-apish nation Limps after in base imitation

For naught so vile that on the earth doth live But to the earth some special good doth give.

Oh, God! I have an ill-divining soul!