If thou see me down in the battle, and bestride
me, so; ’tis a point of friendship. Nothing but a colossus can do thee that friendship.
Say thy prayers, and farewell. I would it were bedtime, Hal, and all well. Why, thou owest God a death. ‘Tis not due yet; I would be loath to pay
Him before His day. What need I be so forward with him that calls
not on me? Well, ’tis no matter; honour pricks me on.
Yea, but how if honour prick me off when I come on? how then? Can
honor set-to a leg? no: or an arm? no: or take away the grief
of a wound? no. Honour hath no skill in surgery then? no. What is
honour? a word. What is that word, honour? air. A
trim reckoning! -Who hath it? he that died o’ Wednesday. Doth he feel it? no. Doth
be hear it? no. Is it insensible, then? yea, to the dead. But will
it not live with the living? no. Why? detraction will not suffer
it. Therefore I’ll none of it: honour is a mere scutcheon – and so
ends my catechism.