- Jun 12, 2014
- 12,924
- 32,564
Founding Member
What’s he that wishes so?
My cousin Oxrageous? No, my fair cousin:
If we are mark’d to die, we are lose
To do our school loss; and if to win,
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 jersey 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 Florida:
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, Oxrageous, through my host,
That he which hath no stomach to this fight,
Let him depart; his passport shall be made
And oxbux 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 St. Tebow:
He that outlives this day, and comes safe home,
Will stand a tip-toe when the day is named,
And rouse him at the name of St. Tebow.
He that shall live this day, and see old age,
Will yearly on the vigil feast his neighbours,
And say ‘To-morrow is the Outdoor Cocktail Party!:’
Then will he strip his sleeve and show his scars.
And say ‘These wounds I had in Jacksonville.’
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
Old Ball Coach, Urban and Harvin,
Spikes and Siler, Trask and Pitts,
Be in their flowing cups freshly remember’d.
This story shall the good man teach his son;
And Halloween 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 Florida now a-bed
Shall think themselves accursed they were not here,
And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks
That fought with us upon St Tebow day.
Is it Saturday yet?
My cousin Oxrageous? No, my fair cousin:
If we are mark’d to die, we are lose
To do our school loss; and if to win,
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 jersey 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 Florida:
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, Oxrageous, through my host,
That he which hath no stomach to this fight,
Let him depart; his passport shall be made
And oxbux 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 St. Tebow:
He that outlives this day, and comes safe home,
Will stand a tip-toe when the day is named,
And rouse him at the name of St. Tebow.
He that shall live this day, and see old age,
Will yearly on the vigil feast his neighbours,
And say ‘To-morrow is the Outdoor Cocktail Party!:’
Then will he strip his sleeve and show his scars.
And say ‘These wounds I had in Jacksonville.’
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
Old Ball Coach, Urban and Harvin,
Spikes and Siler, Trask and Pitts,
Be in their flowing cups freshly remember’d.
This story shall the good man teach his son;
And Halloween 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 Florida now a-bed
Shall think themselves accursed they were not here,
And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks
That fought with us upon St Tebow day.
Is it Saturday yet?
