WESTMORELAND. O that we now had here
But one ten thousand of those men in England
That do no work to-day!
KING. What's he that wishes so?
My cousin Westmoreland? No, my fair cousin;
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 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. O, 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 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 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 sleeve and show his scars,
And say 'These wounds I had on Crispian'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,
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 rememb'red.
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 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.
[I took the liberty of taking his speech and formatting it into Shakespearean blank verse.]
The enemy should be in no doubt
That we are his Nemesis,
And that we are bringing about
His rightful destruction.
There are many regional commanders
Who have stains on their souls,
And they are stoking the fires of Hell for Saddam.
As they die they will know
Their deeds have brought them to this place.
Show them no pity.
But those who do not wish to go on that journey,
We will not send.
As for the others,
I expect you to rock their world.
We go to liberate,
Not to conquer.
We will not fly our flags in their country.
We are entering Iraq to free a people,
And the only flag that will be flown in that ancient land
Is their own.
Don’t treat them as refugees,
For they are in their own country.
I know men who have taken life needlessly
In other conflicts.
They live with the mark of Cain upon them.
If someone surrenders to you,
Then remember they have that right in international law,
And ensure that one day
They go home to their family.
The ones who wish to fight,
Well, we aim to please.
If there are casualties of war,
Then remember,
When they woke up and got dressed in the morning
They did not plan to die this day.
Allow them dignity in death.
Bury them properly,
And mark their graves.
You will be shunned
Unless your conduct is of the highest,
For your deeds will follow you down history.
Iraq is steeped in history.
It is the site of the Garden of Eden,
Of the Great Flood,
And the birth of Abraham.
Tread lightly there.
You will have to go a long way
To find a more decent, generous and upright people
Than the Iraqis.
You will be embarrassed by their hospitality,
Even though they have nothing.
There may be people among us
Who will not see the end of this campaign.
We will put them in their sleeping bags
And send them back.
There will be no time for sorrow.
Let’s leave Iraq a better place
For us having been there.
Our business now, is north.
O, pardon me, thou bleeding piece of earth, That I am meek and gentle with these butchers! Thou art the ruins of the noblest people That ever lived in the tide of times. Woe to the hand that shed this costly blood!
Over thy wounds now do I prophesy,-- Which, like dumb mouths, do ope their ruby lips, To beg the voice and utterance of my tongue-- A curse shall light upon the limbs of men;
Domestic fury and fierce civil strife Shall cumber all the parts of Araby; Blood and destruction shall be so in use And dreadful objects so familiar That mothers shall but smile when they behold Their insergents quarter'd with the hands of war;
All pity choked with custom of fell deeds: And New Yorks's spirit, ranging for revenge, With Ate by his side come hot from hell, Shall in these confines with a Presidential voice Cry 'Havoc,' and let slip the dogs of war;
That this foul deed shall smell above the earth With carrion men, groaning for burial.