Once again into the breach dear friends
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Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more; Or close the wall up with our English dead! But when the blast of war blows in our ears, Then imitate the action of the tiger; Stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood. King Henry, scene i And sheath'd their swords for lack of argument. King Henry, scene i I see you stand like link in the slips, Straining upon the start.
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. Act III. Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more; Or close the wall up with our English dead! Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more. Read Shakespeare's "Once more unto the breach, dear friends" quote from Henry V below, along with a modern English translation: Spoken by Henry, Henry V.
The game's afoot; Follow your spirit: England and Saint George! King Henry, scene i I would give all my fame for a pot of ale, and safety. Boy, scene ii Men of few words are the best men.
Boy, scene ii This is the latest parle we will admit: Therefore to our best mercy give yourselves, Or, like to men proud of destruction, Defy us to our worst: The gates of mercy shall be all shut up, And the flesh'd soldier, rough and hard of heart, In liberty of bloody hand, shall range With conscience wide as hell; mowing like grass Your fresh-fair virgins and your flowering infants.
What is it then to me, if impious War, Array'd in flames, like to the prince of fiends, Do, with his smirch'd complexion, all fell feats Enlink'd to waste and desolation?
What is't to me, when you yourselves are cause, If your pure maidens fall into the hand Of hot and forcing violation? What rein can hold licentious wickedness, When down the hill he holds his fierce career?
Once again into the breach dear friends, once more unto the breach, dear friends
We may as bootless spend our vain command Upon the enraged soldiers in their spoil, As send precepts to the Leviathan To come ashore. Therefore, you men of Harfleur, Take pity of your town, and of your people, Whiles yet my soldiers are in my command; Whiles yet the cool and temperate wind of grace O'erblows the filthy and contagious clouds Of deadly murder, spoil, and villainy. If not, why, in a moment, look to see The blind and bloody soldier, with foul hand, Defile the locks of your shrill-shrieking daughters; Your fathers taken by the silver beards, And their most reverend heads dash'd to the walls; Your naked infants spitted upon.