Emotions and Feelings

For there was never yet philosopher That could endure the toothache patiently.

Patch griefs with proverbs.

For it so falls out That what we have we prize not to the worth Whiles we enjoy it, but being lack’d and lost, Why, then we rack the value, then we find The virtue that possession would not show us Whiles it was ours.

Sigh no more, ladies, sigh no more. Men were deceivers ever; One foot in sea, and one on shore, To one thing constant never.

Grow like savages—as soldiers will, That nothing do but meditate on blood.

Friendship is constant in all other things Save in the office and affairs of love: Therefore all hearts in love use their own tongues; Let every eye negotiate for itself And trust no agent.

We few, we happy few, we band of brothers; For he today that sheds his blood with me Shall be my brother.

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.

But if it be a sin to covet honor, I am the most offending soul alive.

’Tis not the balm, the scepter and the ball, The sword, the mace, the crown imperial, The intertissued robe of gold and pearl, The farced title running ’fore the king, The throne he sits on, nor the tide of pomp That beats upon the high shore of this world, No, not all these, thrice-gorgeous ceremony, Not all these, laid in bed majestical, Can sleep so soundly as the wretched slave, Who with a body fill’d and vacant mind Gets him to rest, cramm’d with distressful bread.

O God of battles! steel my soldiers’ hearts; Possess them not with fear; take from them now The sense of reckoning, if the opposed numbers Pluck their hearts from them.

O God of battles! steel my soldiers’ hearts; Possess them not with fear; take from them now The sense of reckoning, if the opposed numbers Pluck their hearts from them.

A little touch of Harry in the night.

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!”

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: But 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-favor’d rage; Then lend the eye a terrible aspect.

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: But 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-favor’d rage; Then lend the eye a terrible aspect.

That’s the humor of it.

I know thee not, old man: fall to thy prayers; How ill white hairs become a fool and jester!

Thy wish was father, Harry, to that thought!

How quickly nature falls into revolt When gold becomes her object!

O polish’d perturbation! golden care! That keep’st the ports of slumber open wide To many a watchful night!

We ready are to try our fortunes To the last man.

Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown.

O sleep! O gentle sleep! 21 Nature’s soft nurse, how have I frighted thee, That thou no more wilt weigh my eyelids down And steep my senses in forgetfulness?