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 Give Me Liberty, or Give Me Death!             Patrick Henry 


Delivered before the Virginia Convention of Delegates
St. John's Church, Richmond, Virginia  March 23, 1775

Mr. President:

No man thinks more highly than I do of the patriotism, as well
as abilities, of the very worthy gentlemen who have just addressed
the House.  But different men often see the same subject in
different lights; and, therefore, I hope that it will not be
thought disrespectful to those gentlemen, if, entertaining as I
do, opinions of a character very opposite to theirs, I shall speak
forth my sentiments freely and without reserve.  This is no time
for ceremony.  The question before the House is one of awful
moment to this country.  For my own part I consider it as nothing
less than a question of freedom or slavery; and, in proportion to
the magnitude of the subject, ought to be the freedom of the
debate.  It is only in this way that we can hope to arrive at
truth, and fulfil the great responsibility which we hold to God
and our country.  Should I keep back my opinions at such a time,
through fear of giving offense, I should consider myself as guilty
of treason towards my country, and of an act of disloyalty towards
the Majesty of Heaven, which I revere above all earthly kings.

Mr. President, it is natural to men to indulge in the
illusions of hope.  We are apt to shut our eyes against a painful
truth -- and listen to the song of that siren, till she transforms
us into beasts.  Is this the part of wise men, engaged in a great
and arduous struggle for liberty?  Are we disposed to be of the
number of those who, having eyes, see not, and having ears, hear
not, the things which so nearly concern their temporal salvation?
For my part, whatever anguish of spirit it may cost, I am willing
to know the whole truth; to know the worst and to provide for it.

I have but one lamp by which my feet are guided, and that is
the lamp of experience.  I know of no way of judging of the future
but by the past.  And judging by the past, I wish to know what
there has been in the conduct of the British Ministry for the last
ten years to justify those hopes with which gentlemen have been
pleased to solace themselves and the House?  Is it that insidious
smile with which our petition has been lately received?  Trust it
not, sir; it will prove a snare to your feet.  Suffer not
yourselves to be betrayed with a kiss.  Ask yourself how this
gracious reception of our petition comports with those war-like
preparations which cover our waters and darken our land.  Are
fleets and armies necessary to a work of love and reconciliation?
Have we shown ourselves so unwilling to be reconciled that force
must be called in to win back our love?  Let us not deceive
ourselves, sir.  These are the implements of war and subjugation
-- the last arguments to which kings resort.  I ask gentlemen,
sir, what means this martial array if its purpose be not to force
us to submission?  Can gentlemen assign any other possible motive
for it?  Has Great Britain any enemy, in this quarter of the
world, to call for this accumulation of navies and armies?  No,
sir, she has none.  They are meant for us; they can be meant for
no other.  They are sent over to bind and rivet upon us those
chains which the British Ministry have been so long forging.

And what have we to oppose to them?  Shall we try argument?
Sir, we have been trying that for the last ten years.  Have we
anything new to offer upon the subject?  Nothing.  We have held
the subject up in every light of which it is capable; but it has
been all in vain.  Shall we resort to entreaty and humble
supplication?  What terms shall we find which have not been
already exhausted?  Let us not, I beseech you, sir, deceive
ourselves longer.  Sir, we have done everything that could be done
to avert the storm which is now coming on.  We have petitioned --
we have remonstrated -- we have supplicated -- we have prostrated
ourselves before the throne, and have implored its interposition
to arrest the tyrannical hands of the Ministry and Parliament.
Our petitions have been slighted; our remonstrances have produced
additional violence and insult; our supplications have been
disregarded; and we have been spurned with contempt from the foot
of the throne.  In vain, after these things, may we indulge the
fond hope of peace and reconciliation.

There is no longer any room for hope.  If we wish to be free
-- if we mean to preserve inviolate those inestimable privileges
for which we have been so long contending -- if we mean not basely
to abandon the noble struggle in which we have been so long
engaged, and which we have pledged ourselves never to abandon
until the glorious object of our contest shall be obtained -- we
must fight!  -- I repeat it, sir, we must fight; an appeal to arms
and to the God of Hosts is all that is left us!

They tell us, sir, that we are weak -- unable to cope with so
formidable an adversary.  But when shall we be stronger?  Will it
be the next week or the next year?  Will it be when we are totally
disarmed, and when a British guard shall be stationed in every
house?  Shall we gather strength by irresolution and inaction?
Shall we acquire the means of effectual resistance by lying
supinely on our backs and hugging the delusive phantom of hope,
until our enemy shall have bound us hand and foot?  Sir, we are
not weak, if we make a proper use of those forces which the God of
nature hath placed in our power.  Three millions of people armed
in the holy cause of liberty, and in such a country as that which
we possess, are invincible by any force which our enemy can send
against us.

Besides, sir, we shall not fight our battles alone.  There is a
just God who presides over the destinies of nations, and who will
raise up friends to fight our battles for us.  The battle, sir, is
not to the strong alone; it is to the vigilant, the active, the
brave.  Besides, sir, we have no election.  If we were base enough
to desire it, it is now too late to retire from the contest.  There
is no retreat but in submission and slavery!  Our chains are
forged!  Their clanking may be heard on the plains of Boston!  The
war is inevitable -- and let it come!  I repeat it, sir, let it
come!

It is vain, sir, to extenuate the matter.  Gentlemen may cry,
peace, peace -- but there is no peace.  The war is actually begun!
The next gale that sweeps from the north will bring to our ears
the clash of resounding arms!  Our brethren are already in the
field!  Why stand we here idle?  What is it that gentlemen wish?
What would they have?  Is life so dear, or peace so sweet, as to
be purchased at the price of chains and slavery?  Forbid it,
Almighty God!  I know not what course others may take; but as for
me, give me liberty, or give me death!


