Happy Belated St. Crispin's Day!

Yes, how ironic for me to get this wrong. St. Crispin's Day is October 25th (yes, that was yesterday). But nonetheless, I'll celebrate it. 6 carboys bubbling merrily in my basement (well, two...the others are aging quietly), and last night I polished off almost all of my first batch, a tasty and ever so hop-bitter ESB. I've got one pint left. I might actually bottle my barleywine tonight, in order to make this weekend a little easier. The final gravity as I recall is going to be insanely high, but hey, I'm not about to throw out good ale...it could just need a good long period to age. This weekend I will need to transfer the Koelsch into secondary...although if fermentation continues steadily I may have to postpone that. I've got my fermentation temps in the sweet spot for that ale...low 60's. Most likely it will be quite pleasant; light in body, with a pleasing triad of light pilsner malt, austere German hops, and the sweet aromatics of clover honey. Honestly this is the kind of beer to brew in late spring, to enjoy crisp and cold during the hot summer months. I'm going to let the Double IPA have two weeks in the primary, to ensure it attenuates as much as it needs to. I've also been seriously considering making the jump beyond extract brewing and going all-grain. Not going to do it just yet, anyway.

But now, my friends, let's recount the inspiration for the project, from Shakespeare's Henry V:

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.