St. Crispin's Day (Foghorn Leghorn)

The speaker is questioning who wishes for something and responds to his cousin, saying that if they are destined to die, their country will suffer. He believes that fewer men will bring greater honor. He prays that they don't wish for more men. He doesn't care about material things or coveting honor, but if it's a sin, he is the most offended. He urges his cousin not to wish for more men, as he doesn't want to lose the honor they have. He says that those who don't have the stomach to fight can leave. He talks about the significance of the day and how those who survive will remember it. He says that those who shed blood with him will be considered his brothers. The gentlemen in England who didn't fight will feel cursed and hold their manhood cheap. What's, I say, what's he that wishes so, My cousin Westmoreland? No, my fair cousin, if we are marked to die, We are now to do our country loss, And if to live, the few, I say, the fewer men, The greater share of honour. God's will, I pray thee, wish not one man more. If I jove, I am not covetous for gold, Nor care I who doth feed upon my cost. It yearns, I say, 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, I say, I am the most offended in soul alive. No faith, my cousins, wish not a man from England. God's peace, I would not lose so great an honour. As one man more, methinks, would share for me, For the best hope I have, O do not wish one more. Rather, proclaim, I say, 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, I say, this day is called the feast of Crispian. He that outlives this day, and comes safe home, Will stare to tiptoe at the day's name, And rouse him at the name of Crispian. He that shall live this day, and see old age, Shall yearly on the vigil feast his neighbours, And say, I say, say, tomorrow is St. Crispian. Then will he strip his sleeve, and show his scars, And say, These wounds I had on Crispian's day. Old men forget, it all shall be forgot, But he'll remember with advantages What feats he did that day. Then, I say, 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 remembered. This, I say, this story shall a good man teach his son, And Crispian Crispian shall ne'er go by From this day to the ending of the world. But we, I say, we in it shall be remembered, We few, we happy few, we band of brothers. For he today that sheds his blood with me Shall be my brother. Be he, I say, be he ne'er so vile As this day shall gentle his condition. And gentlemen in England now abed Shall think, I say, think themselves A curse they will not hear, And hold their manhood cheap. While then he speaks, That fought, I say, that fought with us Upon St. Crispian's day.