No, my fair cousin Amos;
    If we are mark'd to die, we are enow
    To do our country loss; and if to live,
    The fewer men, the greater share of honour.
    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 BS honour,
    I am the most offending soul alive.
    No, faith, my coz, wish not a soul from anywhere.
    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. O, do not wish one more!
    Rather proclaim it, Amos, 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 post in that one's company
    That fears his fellowship to die with us.
    This day is call'd the feast of Crispian.
    He that outlives this day, and comes safe home,
    Will stand a tip-toe when this day is nam'd,
    And rouse him- or her- self at the name of Crispian.
    He that shall live 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/her sleeve and show his/her scars,
    And say 'These wounds I had on Crispian's day.'
    Old (wo)men forget; yet all shall be forgot,
    But s/he'll remember, with advantages,
    What feats s/he did that day. Then shall our names,
    Familiar in his/her mouth as household words-
    Rapaire the King, Stilly River Sage and Eiseley,
    Amos and Khandu, Bee-Dubya-Ell and all-
    Be in their flowing cups freshly rememb'red.
    This story shall the good (wo)man teach her/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 remembered-
    We few, we happy few, we band of brothers and sisters;
    For s/he to-day that sheds her/his posts with me
    Shall be my sibling; be s/he ne'er so vile,
    This day shall gentle his or her condition;
    And those everywhere now-a-bed
    Shall think themselves accurs'd they were not here,
    And hold their (wo)manhoods cheap whiles any speaks
    That wrote with us upon Saint Crispin's day.
                      --Adapted from Wm. Shakespeare