To prawda, że mirkoświat coraz bardziej pustoszeje. Być może zbliżamy się do pewnego końca. Być może nastąpią teraz wieki ciemne (grr!) - może jako wiek heroiczny, w którym wykuje się nowy świat. Ludzie wymierają, tych co po prostu trafiła realioza - trudno, nikt nie trwa wiecznie. Ale niektórzy na własne życzenie pozbawili się życia - z powodu różnych zgryzot, słabo zrozumiałym napadów histerii i obrażalstwa, wylewów wiele lat kultywowanej żółci - sami odebrali sobie możliwość uczestniczenia w tej pięknej nadchodzącej epoce, w której ograniczać może nas tylko mniej.
Westmoreland: O! that we now had here
But one ten thousand of those men in England
That do no work to-day.
King Henry: 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.
[...]
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.
[...]
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.