Perhaps the greatest speech in Shakespeare

Perhaps: perhaps merely one of the greatest. Wherever it stands in the pantheon of great speeches, it is surely one of the best, perhaps by anyone.
It begins with persuasion: don't ask for more to be with us, for then we'd have to let them share our glory: and follows with a promise of glories yet to come, to be celebrated, drunk to in years to come. And it rises to a crescendo with the lines we all know: "We few, we happy few, we band of brothers", promising that those not present will pale in comparison, even in their own minds. I can't listen to Olivier or Branagh's versions without a shiver.

Today is the feast of St Crispin and St Crispinian, a day that will live beyond any knowledge of the day, the saints or the reason to celebrate. Other than, of course, the following:

King Henry V:

What's he that wishes so?

My cousin Westmorland. No, my fair cousin:

If we are marked 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 ernes 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 presently 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 called the Feast of Crispian:

He that outlives this day, and comes safe home,

Will stand a-tiptoe when the day is named,

And rouse him at the name of Crispian.

He that shall see this day and live t'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 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 remembered.

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 today 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 abed

Shall think themselves accursed they were not here,

And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks

That fought with us upon Saint Crispin's day. (IV, iii)

This always gives me goosepimples!
Yours, ashiver,
N.