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.

This is the third time; I hope good luck lies in odd numbers. Away; go. They say there is divinity in odd numbers, either in nativity, chance, or death.

A hand as fruitful as the land that feeds us; His dew falls everywhere.

Virtue is chok'd with foul ambition

I'll say she looks as clear as morning roses newly washed with dew.

Fight to the last gasp.

For my own part, I shall be glad to learn of noble men.