“Beasts of England, beasts of Ireland,Beasts of every land and clime,Hearken to my joyful tidingsOf the golden future time.Soon or late the day is coming,Tyrant Man shall be o'erthrown,And the fruitful fields of EnglandShall be trod by beasts alone.Rings shall vanish from our noses,And the harness from our back,Bit and spur shall rust forever,Cruel whips shall no more crack.Riches more than mind can picture,Wheat and barley, oats and hay,Clover, beans, and mangel-wurzels,Shall be ours upon that day.Bright will shine the fields of England,Purer shall its water be,Sweeter yet shall blow its breezesOn the day that sets us free.For that day we all must labour,Though we die before it break;Cows and horses, geese and turkeys,All must toils for freedom's sake.Beasts of England, beasts of Ireland,Beasts of every land and clime,Hearken well and spread my tidingsOf the golden future time. ”

“We shall sleep on moss for many nights, till the beasts of the body come to tear our body. We have no bed now, save the moss,and no future, save the beasts.”

“These folk are hewers of trees and hunters of beasts; therefore we are their unfriends, and if they will not depart we shall afflict them in all ways that we can.”

“To whom shall I hire myself out? What beast should I adore? What holy image is attacked? What hearts shall I break? What lies shall I uphold? In what blood tread?”

“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 remembered-We few, we happy few, we band of brothers;For he to-day that sheds his blood with meShall be my brother; be he ne'er so vile,This day shall gentle his condition;And gentlemen in England now-a-bedShall think themselves accurs'd they were not here,And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaksThat fought with us upon Saint Crispin's day”

“Be of good comfort, Mr. Ridley, and play the man: We shall this day light such a candle, by God's grace, in England, as I trust never shall be put out.”