All Gloucester Quotes

WESTMORELAND. O that we now had here But one ten thousand of those men in England That do no work to-day! KING. What's he that wishes so? My cousin Westmoreland? No, my fair cousin; If we are mark'd to die, we are enow To do our country loss; and if to live, 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 garments 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 England. 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, Westmoreland, through my host, That he which hath no stomach to this fight, Let him depart; his passport shall be made, And crowns 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 call'd the feast of Crispian. He that outlives this day, and comes safe home, Will stand a tip-toe when this day is nam'd, And rouse him at the name of Crispian. He that shall live this day, and see old age, Will yearly on the vigil feast his neighbours, And say 'To-morrow is Saint Crispian.' Then will he strip his sleeve and show his scars, And say 'These wounds I had on Crispian's day.' 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- Harry the King, Bedford and Exeter, Warwick and Talbot, Salisbury and Gloucester- Be in their flowing cups freshly rememb'red. 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 me Shall be my brother; be he ne'er so vile, This day shall gentle his condition; And gentlemen in England now-a-bed Shall think themselves accurs'd they were not here, And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks That fought with us upon Saint Crispin's day.

There was a young lady from Gloucester Who complained that her parents both bossed her, So she ran off to Maine. Did her parents complain? Not at all -- they were glad to have lost her.

For behind the wooden wainscots of all the old houses in Gloucester, there are little mouse staircases and secret trap-doors; and the mice run from house to house through those long narrow passages; they can run all over the town without going into the streets.

From all the roofs and gables and old wooden houses in Gloucester came a thousand merry voices singing the old Christmas rhymes - all the old songs that ever I heard of, and some that I don't know, like Whittington's bells.

It is in the old story that all the beasts can talk, in the night between Christmas Eve and Christmas Day in the morning (though there are very few folk that can hear them, or know what it is that they say).

he which hath no stomach to this fight, Let him depart; his passport shall be made, And crowns 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 call'd the feast of Crispian. He that outlives this day, and comes safe home, Will stand a tip-toe when this day is nam'd, And rouse him at the name of Crispian. He that shall live this day, and see old age, Will yearly on the vigil feast his neighbours, And say 'To-morrow is Saint Crispian.' Then will he strip his sleeve and show his scars, And say 'These wounds I had on Crispian's day.' 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- Harry the King, Bedford and Exeter, Warwick and Talbot, Salisbury and Gloucester- Be in their flowing cups freshly rememb'red. 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 me Shall be my brother; be he ne'er so vile, This day shall gentle his condition; And gentlemen in England now-a-bed Shall think themselves accurs'd they were not here, And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks That fought with us upon Saint Crispin's day.

No one ever escapes Gloucester. Kids go off to college and settle somewhere else. But they always come back. If Gloucester is all you know, every place else seems a little phony.

You will always be Mrs West, all over the world. That is important to me and to you.

I travel back to Shakespeare, to Spenser, to Gascoigne, to Hawes, to Chaucer, Wiclif, and at length to Piers Ploughman, Robert of Gloucester, or whatever other work is taken as the earliest in our tongue. It is quite impossible with any consistency to make a stand anywhere, or to admit any words now obsolete without including, or at least attempting to include all.

Ay, every inch a king: When I do stare, see how the subject quakes. I pardon that man's life. What was thy cause? Adultery? Thou shalt not die: die for adultery! No: The wren goes to 't, and the small gilded fly Does lecher in my sight. Let copulation thrive; for Gloucester's bastard son Was kinder to his father than my daughters Got 'tween the lawful sheets. To 't, luxury, pell-mell! for I lack soldiers. Behold yond simpering dame, Whose face between her forks presages snow; That minces virtue, and does shake the head To hear of pleasure's name; The fitchew, nor the soiled horse, goes to 't With a more riotous appetite. Down from the waist they are Centaurs, Though women all above: But to the girdle do the gods inherit, Beneath is all the fiends'; There's hell, there's darkness, there's the sulphurous pit, Burning, scalding, stench, consumption; fie, fie, fie! pah, pah! Give me an ounce of civet, good apothecary, to sweeten my imagination: there's money for thee.

Mother had it all wrong. Uncle Gloucester had been ruling the north justly and well. Why should he not rule all England as wisely? She could not imagine him wreaking vengeance. It was just not in character. Mother was overwrought with grief, she decided.

Back in Gloucester, Chris Cotter has a similar dream. Bobby appears before her, all smiles, and she says to him, “Hey, Bobby, where you been?” He doesn’t tell her, he just keeps smiling and says, “Remember, Christina, I’ll always love you,” and then he fades away. “He’s always happy when he goes and so I know he’s okay,” says Chris. “He’s absolutely okay.

In King Lear, there is a man who is such a minor character that Shakespeare has not given him even a name: he is merely “First Servant.” All the characters around him – Regan, Cornwall, and Edmund – have fine long-term plans. They think they know how the story is going to end, and they are quite wrong. The servant has no such delusions. He has no notion of how the play is going to go. But he understands the present scene. He sees an abomination (the blinding of old Gloucester) taking place. He will not stand it. His sword is out and pointed at his master’s breast in a moment: then Regan stabs him dead from behind. That is his whole part: eight lines all told. But if it were real life and not a play, that is the part it would be best to have acted.

This day is call’d the feast of Crispian:40 He that outlives this day, and comes safe home, Will stand a tip-toe when this day is nam’d, And rouse him at the name of Crispian. He that shall live this day, and see old age,44 Will yearly on the vigil feast his neighbours, And say, ‘To-morrow is Saint Crispian:’ Then will he strip his sleeve and show his scars, And say, ‘These wounds I had on Crispin’s day.’ Old men forget: yet all shall be forgot,49 But he’ll remember with advantages What feats he did that day. Then shall our names, Familiar in his mouth as household words,52 Harry the king, Bedford and Exeter, Warwick and Talbot, Salisbury and Gloucester, Be in their flowing cups freshly remember’d. This story shall the good man teach his son;56 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;60

He was digging in his garden--digging, too, in his own mind, laboriously turning up the substance of his thought. Death--and he drove in his spade once, and again, and yet again. And all our yesterdays have lighted fools they way to dusty death. A convincing thunder rumbled through the words. He lifted another spadeful of earth. Why had Linda died? Why had she been allowed to become gradually less than human and at last... He shuddered. A good kissing carrion. He planted his foot on his spade and stamped it fiercely into the tough ground. As flies to wanton boys are we to the gods; they kills us for their sport. Thunder again; words that proclaimed themselves true--truer somehow than truth itself. And yet that same Gloucester had called them ever-gentle gods. Besides, thy best of rest is sleep, and that thou oft provok'st; yet grossly fear'st thy death which is no more. No more than sleep. Sleep. Perchance to dream. His spade struck against a stone; he stooped to pick it up. For in that sleep of death, what dreams...?

After we had been back on Pavuvu about a week, I had one of the most heartwarming and rewarding experiences of my entire enlistment in the Marine Corps. It was after taps, all the flambeaus were out, and all of my tent mates were in their sacks with mosquito nets in place. We were all very tired, still trying to unwind from the tension and ordeal of Peleliu. All was quiet except for someone who had begun snoring softly when one of the men, a Gloucester veteran who had been wounded on Peleliu, said in steady measured tones, “You know something, Sledgehammer?” “What?” I answered. “I kinda had my doubts about you,” he continued, “and how you’d act when we got into combat, and the stuff hit the fan. I mean, your ole man bein’ a doctor and you havin’ been to college and bein’ sort of a rich kid compared to some guys. But I kept my eye on you on Peleliu, and by God you did OK; you did OK.” “Thanks, ole buddy,” I replied, nearly bursting with pride. Many men were decorated with medals they richly earned for their brave actions in combat, medals to wear on their blouses for everyone to see. I was never awarded an individual decoration, but the simple, sincere personal remarks of approval by my veteran comrade that night after Peleliu were like a medal to me. I have carried them in my heart with great pride and satisfaction ever since.

Leaving for home early, I had to stand up in the tube all the way back. Returning to the world from the bowels of Gloucester Road station, I struggled towards Froxbury Mansions with the faltering determination of a dying Bedouin crawling towards an oasis. All

Howard’s luck just run out, that’s all. Ain’t no damn way a guy can go on forever without gittin’ hit,” gloomily remarked a Gloucester veteran who had joined Company K with Nease two campaigns before Okinawa.

THE MARTYR AND THE CHAIN. "When Hooper, the blessed martyr, was at the stake, and the officers came to fasten him to it, he cried, 'Let me alone; God that hath called me hither will keep me from stirring; and yet,' said he, upon second thought, ' because I am but flesh and blood, I am willing. Bind me fast, lest I stir.'" John Hooper (1495-1500 – 1555) was an Anglican English Bishop of Gloucester and Worcester. An advocate of the English Reformation, he was martyred during the Marian Persecutions. Some plead that they have no need of the holdfasts of an outward profession, and the solemn pledges of the two great ordinances, for the Holy Spirit will keep them faithful; yet surely, like this man of God, they may well accept those cords of love wherewith heavenly wisdom would bind us to the horns of the altar. Our infirmities need all the helps which divine love has devised and we may not be so self-sufficient as to refuse them. Pledges, covenants, and vows of human devising should be used with great caution; but where the Lord ordains, we may proceed without question, our only fear being lest by neglecting them we should despise the command of the Lord, or by relying upon them we should wrest the precept from its proper intent. Whatever will prove a check to us when tempted, or an incentive when commanded, must be of use to us, however strong we may conceive ourselves to be. "Bind the sacrifice with cords, even with cords to the horns of the altar." Lord, cast a fresh band about me every day. Let the constraining love of Jesus hold me faster and faster. "Oh, to grace how great a debtor, Daily I'm constrained to be!  Let that grace, Lord, like a fetter, Bind my wandering heart to thee.

IN 1957 JOHN WEST left Marcle School and went to work on the farm with Fred and their father. Life as an unskilled labourer was poorly paid, but the West boys could expect nothing better. Their father had been a farm worker all his life, as had their maternal grandfather, William Hill, and his father before him; there was no reason to hope or think that John and Fred would ever do anything else. An acquaintance of Fred’s at the time, Patrick Meredith, says that he fully expected Fred to be ‘walking behind a cow with a stick for the rest of his life’.

The purpose and indeed the strength of the Richard III Society derives from the belief that the truth is more powerful than lies – a faith that even after all these centuries the truth is important. It is proof of our sense of civilised values that something as esoteric and as fragile as a reputation is worth campaigning for.’ HRH The Duke of Gloucester, KG, GCVO, Patron

Good heavens!” I said. “Strychnine and vitriol in beer?” “And in gin too. Enough to impart hallucinations and a nasty disruption of the bowels. And I have seen far worse: indianberry – very toxic – added to beer to make it more intoxicating. Custard flavoured with laurel – a mortal poison; pepper made from floor sweepings, comfits from china clay. Double Gloucester cheese coloured with red lead. Lead, copper, mercury, arsenic – deadly, all – they are everywhere. I myself can attest that lead salts taste quite delicious.

The bobby directed us to the “Private Road” we’d already passed, but added, “You won’t be able to drive up there. It’s restricted.” Pat nudged me, so I said, “Oh, it’s all right, Officer. We have an appointment with the Princess of Wales.” The policeman shook his head in disbelief and said, “Right-o. Sure you do. Good day.” We drove right back to where we had started and proceeded through an open gateway framed by two square brick columns, both marked “Private Road.” Just before we reached the gravel courtyard next to the palace, we came to a small guardhouse. I told the two guards who we were and explained, “We’ve been invited to lunch with Her Royal Highness.” They laughed, “Which one?” I blushed at my mistake. “The Princess of Wales,” I specified. I had forgotten that Their Royal Highnesses, Princess Margaret and Princess Michael of Kent, as well as the Duchess of Gloucester, also had apartments at Kensington Palace.

He’s very security minded. We have alarm systems all around the house. Every few months, in the middle of the night, a deer or a raccoon will wander too close. Beacons flash, sirens blare. The neighbors scream at us and we’ve got the police at our door. But we’re ‘safe.’” —Tammy, Gloucester, MA

Angeline says that we’re not doing very well. Apparently they expected the Japs from the south, by the sea, but they came from the north instead and just breezed right through the defenses there. And it’s really awful outside.” Her voice hiccups. “I saw a dead baby on a pile of rubbish this morning as I came here. It’s all around, the rubbish and the corpses, I mean, and they’re burning it so it smells like what I imagine hell smells like. And I saw a woman being beaten with bamboo poles and then dragged off by her hair. She was half being dragged, half crawling along, and screaming like the end of the world. Her skin was coming off in ribbons. You’re supposed to wear sanitary pads so that . . . you know . . . if a soldier tries to . . . Well, you know. The locals and the Japanese both are looting anything that’s not locked down, and thieving and generally being impossible. They’re all over the place in Kowloon, running amok. We’re thinking about moving out to one of the hotels, just so we’re more in the middle of things, and we can see people and get more information. The Gloucester is packed to the rafters but my old friend Delia Ho has a room at the Repulse Bay and says we can have it because she’s leaving to go to China. We can share the room with Angeline, don’t you think? And apparently, the American Club has cots out and people are staying there as well. They have a lot of supplies, I suppose. Americans always do. Everyone wants to be around other people.

I come back to the geography of it, the land falling off to the left where my father shot his scabby golf and the rest of us played baseball into the summer darkness until no flies could be seen and we came home to our various piazzas where the women buzzed To the left the land fell to the city, to the right, it fell to the sea I was so young my first memory is of a tent spread to feed lobsters to Rexall conventioneers, and my father, a man for kicks, came out of the tent roaring with a bread-knife in his teeth to take care of the druggist they’d told him had made a pass at my mother, she laughing, so sure, as round as her face, Hines pink and apple, under one of those frame hats women then This, is no bare incoming of novel abstract form, this is no welter or the forms of those events, this, Greeks, is the stopping of the battle It is the imposing of all those antecedent predecessions, the precessions of me, the generation of those facts which are my words, it is coming from all that I no longer am, yet am, the slow westward motion of more than I am There is no strict personal order for my inheritance. No Greek will be able to discriminate my body. An American is a complex of occasions, themselves a geometry of spatial nature. I have this sense, that I am one with my skin Plus this—plus this: that forever the geography which leans in on me I compell backwards I compell Gloucester to yield, to change Polis is this

In reality, there were as many disgruntled reservists and brassed-off regulars on Gloucester Hill as in any other unit of 29 Brigade. It was this that made their fate and their performance the more moving: they were a typical, perhaps a little above average county battalion, who showed for the thousandth time in the history of the British Army what ordinary men, decently led, can achieve in a situation which demands, above all, a willingness for sacrifice.