Original
Modern English
Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more; Or close the wall up with our English dead. In peace there’s nothing so becomes a man As modest stillness and humility: But when the blast of war blows in our ears, Then imitate the action of the tiger; Stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood, Disguise fair nature with hard-favour’d rage; Then lend the eye a terrible aspect; Let pry through the portage of the head Like the brass cannon; let the brow o’erwhelm it As fearfully as doth a galled rock O’erhang and jutty his confounded base, Swill’d with the wild and wasteful ocean. Now set the teeth and stretch the nostril wide, Hold hard the breath and bend up every spirit To his full height. On, on, you noblest English. Whose blood is fet from fathers of war-proof! Fathers that, like so many Alexanders, Have in these parts from morn till even fought And sheathed their swords for lack of argument: Dishonour not your mothers; now attest That those whom you call’d fathers did beget you. Be copy now to men of grosser blood, And teach them how to war. And you, good yeoman, Whose limbs were made in England, show us here The mettle of your pasture; let us swear That you are worth your breeding; which I doubt not; For there is none of you so mean and base, That hath not noble lustre in your eyes. I see you stand like greyhounds in the slips, Straining upon the start. The game’s afoot: Follow your spirit, and upon this charge Cry ’God for Harry, England, and Saint George!’
Once more into the breach, dear friends, once more; Or close the wall with our English dead. In times of peace, there’s nothing that suits a man Like quiet stillness and humility: But when the sound of war is in our ears, Then we must act like tigers; Strengthen our muscles, stir up our blood, Hide our natural gentleness with fierce rage; Then give our eyes a terrifying look; Let our gaze pierce through the front of our heads Like a brass cannon; let our brow bear down As forcefully as a worn-out rock Overlook and project his ruined foundation, Soaked by the wild and wasteful ocean. Now grit your teeth and stretch your nostrils wide, Hold your breath and summon all your energy To your full height. Go, go, you greatest English. Whose blood comes from fathers who were tough in battle! Fathers who, like so many Alexanders, Have fought in these parts from morning to evening And put away their swords when there was no more fighting: Do not dishonor your mothers; now prove That those whom you called fathers truly fathered you. Be a model now for men of lesser blood, And show them how to fight. And you, good commoners, Whose bodies were made in England, show us here The strength of your upbringing; let us swear That you are worthy of your ancestry; which I have no doubt; For there is none of you so low and insignificant, That does not have a noble gleam in your eyes. I see you stand like greyhounds at the starting line, Tensed and ready to race. The game’s begun: Follow your spirit, and at this charge Shout ‘God for Harry, England, and Saint George!’