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Army: Quotations from Shakespearian Quotations

A braver choice of dauntless spirits Than now the English bottoms have waft o'er, Did never float upon the swelling tide, To do offence and scath in Christendom. The interruption of their churlish drums Cuts off more circumstance: they are at hand, K.Jül To parley, or to fight; therefore prepare. England, impatient of your just demands, Hath put himself in arms; the adverse winds, Whose leisure & have staid, have given him time To land his legions all as soon as I His marches are expedient to this town, His forces strong, his soldiers confident.— K. J. ii. L.

Tell the Constable, We are but warriors for the working day; Our gayness, and our gilt, are all be-smirch'd With rainy marching in the painful field. There's not a piece of feather in our host, (Good argument I hope we shall not fly,) And time has worn us into slovenry : But, by the mass, our hearts are in the trim.— H. V. iv. 3.

Within a ken our army lies; Upon mine honour, all too confident To give admittance to a thought of fear.— H. IV. PT. II. iv. 1.

All the unsettled humours of the land,- Rash, inconsiderate, fiery voluntaries, With ladies' faces, and fierce dragons' spleens, - Have sold their fortunes at their native homes, Bearing their birthrights proudly on their backs, To make a hazard of new fortunes here.— K. J. ii. 1

Remember who you are to cope withal ;- : sort A sort of vagabonds, rascals, and run-aways, of vagabonds, rascals, and run-aways, A scum of Bretagnes, and base lackey peasants, Whom their Whom their o'er-cloy'd country vomits forth 1 desperate ventures, and assur'd destruction.— R. III. v. 3

Big Mars seems bankrupt in their beggar'd host, And faintly through a rusty beaver peeps. The horsemen sit like fixed candlesticks, With torch-staves in their hands; and their poor jades Lob down their heads, drooping the hides and hips; The gum down-roping from their pale dead eyes; And in their pale dull mouths the gymold bit Lies foul with chaw'd grass, still and motionless; And their executors, the knavish crows, Fly o'er them all, impatient for their hour.— H. V. iv. 2.

His army is a ragged multitude Of hinds and peasants, rude and merciless.— H. VI. PT. II. iv. 4.