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Falstaff:  Hal, if thou see me down in the battle and bestride me, so!
'Tis a point of friendship.
Prince:  Nothing but a colossus can do thee that friendship.  Say thy
prayers, and farewell.        
Falstaff:  I would 'twere bedtime, Hal, and all well.
Prince:  Why, thou owest God a death.       [Prince exits]
Falstaff:  '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 honour 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 in that word
honour?  What is that honour?  Air - a trim reckoning!  Who hath it?  He
that died a Wednesday.  Doth he feel it?  No.  Doth he hear it?  No.  'Tis
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.

Hotspur on Honour

Henry V at Agincourt