I had my pity-party. My time of private introspection is done. I needed a break to re-calibrate my sensors. I have done so. Here, Bill Whittle explains (toward the end) a recurring thought process over the past few weeks. I have encapsulated my recurring thought, below the video.
- 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.
- I would give all my fame for a pot of ale, and safety.
- This is the liberal mind.
- 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: for, as I am a soldier,
(A name, that, in my thoughts, becomes me best,)
If I begin the battery once again,
I will not leave the half-achieved Harfleur,
Till in her ashes she lie buried.
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?
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 pikes,
Whiles the mad mothers with their howls confus’d
Do break the clouds, as did the wives of Jewry
At Herod’s bloody-hunting slaughtermen.
What say you? Will you yield, and this avoid?
Or, guilty in defence, be thus destroy’d?
- Are we to sit and watch as what we love is destroyed, or shall we fight and be destroyed ourselves? Better to die a man, having continued to fight- than to live a long and peaceful life, dying a slave & a coward.
- The hum of either army stilly sounds,
That the fix’d sentinels almost receive
The secret whispers of each other’s watch.
Fire answers fire, and through their paly flames
Each battle sees the other’s umber’d face:
Steed threatens steed, in high and boastful neighs
Piercing the night’s dull ear; and from the tents,
The armourers, accomplishing the knights,
With busy hammers closing rivets up,
Give dreadful note of preparation.
- We are here. We are legion. The enemy is closing it’s ranks now, to defeat us.
- Every subject’s duty is the king’s; but every subject’s soul is his own.
- Your duty may be to God & country, but your soul belongs to you. It’s your fight to win or lose.
- The wretched slave,
Who, with a body fill’d, and vacant mind,
Gets him to rest, cramm’d with distressful bread.
- The wretched slaves, trapped on the plantation of liberal subservience, may eat & sleep, but at what cost?
- If we are mark’d to die, we are enough
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.
- Should we lose this battle, others will have seize upon the vain, temporal things we have possessed, but we are more than our possessions. More than our professions. More than our ephemera. We are men of honor. We fight for that which is right. We fight for individual liberty. When we are gone, our nation will be gone. Until then, we fight.
- 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.
- If any man wishes to trade his liberty for the relative security of servitude’s shackles, let him depart from us in peace. May his chains set lightly upon him and may posterity forget that he was our countrymen.
- 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 outlives this day, and sees old age,
Will yearly on the vigil feast his friends,
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.”
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 remember’d.
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 remember’d, —
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.
- When you look back in 30 years, will you tell your grand-children how it was when men were free? Look them in the eye and explain that you had the chance to continue the fight, but chose to slink away, defeated? By God, I won’t! I will sit with my brothers & sisters who chose instead to fight! I will hold my head high, my chest out and explain that I fought until there was nothing left.