HV3. The Big Speeches

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HENRY V

A3 S1 “Once More unto the Breach” /

ORIGINAL TEXT

KING HENRY

Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more,


Or close the wall up with our English dead!
In peace there’s nothing so becomes a man
As modest stillness and humility,
5But when the blast of war blows in our ears,
Then imitate the action of the tiger:
Stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood,
Disguise fair nature with hard-favoured rage,
Then lend the eye a terrible aspect
Let pry through the portage of the head
Like the brass cannon, let the brow o'erwhelm it
As fearfully as doth a gallèd rock
O'erhang and jutty his confounded base,
Swilled with the wild and wasteful ocean.
Now set the teeth and stretch the nostril wide,
Hold hard the breath and bend up every spirit
To his full height. On, on, you noblest English,
Whose blood is fet from fathers of war-proof,
Fathers that, like so many Alexanders,
Have in these parts from morn till even fought
And sheathed their swords for lack of argument.
Dishonour not your mothers. Now attest
That those whom you called fathers did beget you.
Be copy now to men of grosser blood,
And teach them how to war. And you, good yeoman,
Whose limbs were made in England, show us here
The mettle of your pasture. Let us swear
That you are worth your breeding, which I doubt not,
For there is none of you so mean and base
That hath not noble lustre in your eyes.
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!”

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HENRY V
MODERN TEXT

Attack the breach in the city wall once more, dear friends, attack it once
more—or else let’s close it up with English corpses.

In peacetime, nothing looks better in a man than restraint and humility.

But when the battle trumpet blows in our ears, then it’s time to act like the tiger.

With muscles taut and blood stirred up, hide your civilized nature under the
guise of ugly rage.

Lend your eyes a terrifying gleam and let them jut out from the portholes of the
head like brass cannon.

Make your brow jut out over your eyes like a frightening cliff over the wild and
desolate ocean.

Now grit your teeth and let your nostrils flare. Take a deep breath and draw on
every impulse to its fullest strength.

On, on, you noblest Englishmen, descended as you are from battle-tested
fathers, fathers who, like so many Alexander the Greats, have fought in these
regions from morning until night, sheathing their swords only when there was
no one left to fight.

Don’t dishonour your mothers!

Prove that the men you call your fathers did truly conceive you.

Serve as an example to men of common birth and teach them how to fight. And
you, good farmers, whose limbs were made in England, show us here the vigour
of your upbringing.

Prove you are worthy of your birth, which I do not doubt for a moment.

For there isn’t one of you so low-born that your eyes don’t shine with noble
lustre.

I see you’re standing like greyhounds on a leash, straining for the moment when
you’ll be let loose. The hunt is on! Follow your spirit, and as you charge cry,

“God for Harry, England, and Saint George!”

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HENRY V
A4S3 “We Few, we happy few.” / ALT Version
Henry V

KING HENRY

What’s he that wishes so


My cousin Westmoreland? No, my fair cousin.
If we are marked to die, we are enough
To do our country loss; and if to live,
The fewer men, the greater share of honor.
God’s will, I pray thee wish not one man more.
By Jove, I am not covetous for gold
Nor care I who doth feed upon my cost;
It yearns me not if men my garments wear;
Such outward things dwell not in my desires.
But if it be a sin to covet honour,
I am the most offending soul alive.
No, faith, my coz, wish not a man from England.
God’s peace, I would not lose so great an honour
As one man more, methinks, would share from me,
For the best hope I have. Oh, do not wish one more!
Rather proclaim it, Westmoreland, through my host,
That he which hath no stomach to this fight,
Let him depart. His passport shall be made,
And crowns for convoy put into his purse.
We would not die in that man’s company
That fears his fellowship to die with us.
This day is called the feast of Crispian.
He that outlives this day and comes safe home,
Will stand o' tiptoe when the day is named
And rouse him at the name of Crispian.
He that shall see this day, and live old age,
Will yearly on the vigil feast his neighbours
And say, “Tomorrow is Saint Crispian.”
Then will he strip his sleeve and show his scars,
And say, “These wounds I had on Crispin’s day.”
Old men forget; yet all shall be forgot
But he’ll remember with advantages
What feats he did that day. Then shall our names,

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HENRY V
Familiar in his mouth as household words,
Harry the King, Bedford and Exeter,
Warwick and Talbot, Salisbury and Gloucester,
Be in their flowing cups freshly remembered.
This story shall the good man teach his son,
And Crispin Crispian shall ne'er go by,
From this day to the ending of the world,
But we in it shall be rememberèd—
We few, we happy few, we band of brothers;
For he today 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 abed
Shall think themselves accursed they were not here,
And hold their manhood’s cheap whiles any speaks
That fought with us upon Saint Crispin’s day.

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HENRY V
MODERN TEXT

KING HENRY

Who wishes that? My cousin Westmoreland? No, my dear cousin. If we are


slated to die, the fewer, the better for our country, and if we’re slated to
live, the fewer men, the greater the share of honour for each of us. In
God’s name, I beg you not to wish for one more man. By God, I am not
selfish when it comes to money: I don’t care who eats at my expense. It
doesn’t bother me when people borrow my clothing—I don’t care about
these concrete things. But if it is a sin to be selfish about honour, I am the
most guilty soul alive. No, my cousin, don’t wish that even one man who is
now in England were here instead. By God, I wouldn’t lose as much
honour as a single man more would cost me, I think—not even if it meant
giving up my best hope for victory. Oh, do not wish one more! Instead,
make this known throughout the army: whoever has no spirit for this
fight, let him depart. He will be given safe conduct and money for his
passage home. We would not want to die in the company of a man who
fears to die with us. This day is called the Feast of Saint Crispian: he who
lives to see this day out and comes home safe will stand tall when this
day is named and raise himself up at the mention of Crispian. He who
survives this day and lives to see old age shall yearly entertain his
neighbours on the eve, saying, “Tomorrow is Saint Crispin’s Day.” He’ll
roll up his sleeve and show his scars, saying, “I got these wounds on St.
Crispin’s Day.” Old men forget. But these men will remember every detail
of what they did today long after they’ve forgotten everything else. And
as the wine flows, our names, familiar as household words, will be
invoked again: Harry the King, Bedford and Exeter, Warwick and Talbot,
Salisbury and Gloucester. Good men will tell their sons this story and
the Feast of St. Crispin will never go by, from this day to the end of time,
without our being remembered: we few, we happy few, we band of brothers—
for whoever sheds his blood with me today shall be my brother. However,
humble his birth, this day shall grant him nobility. And men back in
English now safe in their beds will curse themselves for not having been
here, and think less of their own manhood when they listen to the
stories of those who fought with us here on St. Crispin’s Day.

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