I can but say what I have said afore:
O! do not wish one more:        
Rather proclaim it, Amos, through my host,        
That he which hath no stomach to this celebration,        
Let him depart; his passport shall be made,        
And crowns for convoy put into his purse:        
We would not drink in that man's company        
That fears his fellowship to drink with us.        
This day is call'd the feast of Crispian:        
And Mom hath had her sixteen thousandth post,        
And we will stand a tip-toe when this day is nam'd,        
And rouse the barkeep at the name of MOAB.        
He that shall survive this day, and see old age,        
Will yearly on the vigil feast his neighbours,        
And say, 'To-morrow is Saint Crispian:'        
Then will he strip his sleeve and show his scars,        
And say, 'These wounds I had on Crispin's day
Celebrating Mom's sixteen thousandth post
When bottles emptied as if by magical means
And songs from a thousand throats were sung
And tho' this was long, long ago, I am hung over yet.'