What is honour? a word. What is in that word honour? what is that honour? air. A trim reckoning! Who hath it? he that died o' Wednesday. Doth he feel it? no. Doth he hear it? no.

Hal, if I tell thee a lie, spit in my face, call me horse.

As I love the name of honour more than I fear death.

O monstrous! eleven buckram men grown out of two!

The really unforgivable acts are committed by calm men in beautiful green silk rooms, who deal death wholesale, by the shipload, without lust, or anger, or desire, or any redeeming emotion to excuse them but cold fear of some pretended future. But the crimes they hope to prevent in that future are imaginary. The ones they commit in the present — they are real.

everyone has their folding-point, Miles. Their mortal vulnerability. Some just keep it in a nonstandard location.