That our French gallants fhall to-day draw out,
And fheath for lack of fport. Let's but blow on them,
The vapour of our valour will o'erturn them.
'Tis pofitive 'gainst all exception, Lords,
That our fuperfluous lacqueys and our peasants,
Who in unneceffary action fwarm

About our fquares of battle, were enow
To purge this field of fuch a hilding foe;
Though we, upon this mountain's bafis by,
Took ftand for idle fpeculation:

What's to fay?

But that our honours must not.
A very little, little, let us do;
And all is done. Then let the trumpets found
The tucket-fonuance, and the note to mount:
For our approach fhall fo much dare the field,
That England fhall couch down in fear, and yield.
Enter Grandpree.

Grand. Why do you ftay fo long, my Lords of France?
Yon ifland-carrions, defp'rate of their bones,
Ill-favour'dly become the morning-field:
Their ragged curtains poorly are let loose,
And our air fhakes them paffing fcornfully.

Big Mars feems bankrupt in their beggar'd hoft,
And faintly through a rufty bever peeps.
The horsemen fit like fixed candlesticks,
With torch-ftaves in their hand; and their poor jades
Lob down their heads, dropping the hide and hips:
The gum down-roping from their pale dead eyes;
"And in their pale dull mouths the jymold bitt
"Lies foul with chaw'd grafs, ftill and motionless:
And their executors, the knavish crows,
Fly o'er them, all impatient for their hour.
Defcription cannot fuit itfelf in words,
To demonftrate the life of fuch a battle,
In life fo livelefs as it fhews itself.

Gon. They've faid their prayers, and they ftay for

death.

Dau. Shall we go fend them dinners and fresh futes, And give their falling horfes provender,

And, after fight with them?

Con. I fay but for my guard: on, to the field;

I will the banner from a trumpet take,
And ufe it for my hafte. Come, come, away!
The fun is high, and we outwear the day.

[Exeunt.

SCENE VIII. The English camp..

Enter Gloucefter, Bedford, Exeter, Erpingham, with all the hoft; Salisbury, and Weftmorland.

Glou. Where is the King?

Bed. The King himself is rode to view their battle. Weft. Of fighting men they have full threefcore thoufand.

Exe. There's five to one; befides, they all are fresh. Sal. God's arm ftrike with us, 'tis a fearful odds! God be wi' you, Princes all; I'll to my charge. If we no more meet till we meet in heav'n, Then joyfully, my noble Lord of Bedford, My dear Lord Glo'fter, and my good Lord Exeter, And my kind kinfman, warriors all, adieu !

Bed. Farewel, good Salisbury, and good luck go

with thee!

Exe. [to Sal.] Farewel, kind Lord, fight valiantly And yet I do thee wrong to mind thee of it, [to-day: For thou art fram'd of the firm truth of valour.

[Exit Sal. Bed. He is as full of valour as of kindnefs; Princely in both.

Enter King Henry.

Weft. O that we now had here

But one ten thousand of those men in England,
That do no work to-day!

K. Henry. What's he that wishes fo?

My coufin Weftmorland? No, my fair coufin,
If we are mark'd to die, we are enow

To do our country lofs; 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 of gold;

Nor care I who doth feed upon my coft;
It yerns me not if men my garments wear;
Such outward things dwell not in my defires:
VOL. IV.

But

But if it be a fin to covet honour,

I am the most offending foul alive.

No, 'faith, my Lord, with not a man from England:
God's peace, I would not lose so great an honour,
As one man more, methinks, would fhare from me,
For the best hopes I have. Don't with one more:
Rather proclaim it (Weftmorland) through my hoft,
That he which hath no ftomach to this fight,
Let him depart; his paffport fhall 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 feaft of Crifpian:
He that outlives this day, and comes fafe home,
Will ftand a tip-toe when this day is nam'd,
And roufe him at the name of Crifpian:
"He that outlives this day, and fees old age,
"Will yearly on the vigil feaft his neighbours,
"And fay, To-morrow is Saint Crifpian :
"Then will he strip his fleeve, and fhew his scars.
"Old men forget; yet fhall not all forget,
"But they'll remember, with advantages,
"What feats they did that day. Then fhall our names,
"Familiar in their mouth as houfhold-words,
Harry the King, Bedford, and Exeter,
"Warwick and Talbot, Salisbury and Glo'fter,
"Be in their flowing cups freshly remember'd.
This story fhall the good man teach his fon :
And Crifpin Crifpian fhall ne'er go by,
From this day to the ending of the world,
But we in it fhall 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 fo vile,
This day thall gentle his condition.

And gentlemen in England, now a-bed,

Shall think themselves accurs'd they were not here; And hold their manhoods cheap, while any speaks, That fought with us upon St. Crifpian's day.

Enter Salisbury.

Sal. My Sov'reign Lord, beftow yourself with speed:

The

The French are bravely in their battles fet,
And will with all expedience charge on us.

K. Henry. All things are ready, if our minds be fo. Weft. Perifh the man whofe mind is backward now! K. Henry. Thou dost not wish more help from England, coufin?

Weft. God's will, my Liege, would you and I alone Without more help could fight this royal battle!

K. Henry. Why, now thou haft unwifh'd five thoufand Which likes me better than to with us one. [men: You know your places: God be with you all!

SCENE IX. A tucket founds. Enter Mountjoy. Mount. Once more I come to know of thee, King If for thy ranfom thou wilt now compound, [Harry, Before thy moft affured overthrow :

For certainly thou art so near the gulph,

Thou needs must be inglutted. Thus, in mercy,
The Conftable defires thee, thou wilt mind
Thy followers of repentance; that their fouls
May make a peaceful and a sweet retire

From off these fields; where, wretches, their poor bo-
Muft lie and fefter.

K. Henry. Who hath fent thee now?
Mount. The Conftable of France.

[dies

K. Henry. I pray thee, bear my former anfwer back.
Bid them atchieve me, and then fell my bones.
Good God! why should they mock poor fellows thus?
The man that once did fell the lion's fkin

While the beaft liv'd, was kill'd with hunting him.
And many of our bodies fhall, no doubt,
Find native graves; upon the which, I trust,
Shall witnefs live in brafs of this day's work.
And thofe that leave their valiant bones in France,
Dying like men, though buried in your dunghills,
They fhall be fam'd; for there the sun shall greet them,
And draw their honours reeking up to heav'n;
Leaving their earthly parts to choke your clime,
The fmell whereof fhall breed a plague in France*.

Let

That

Let me fpeak proudly; tell the Conftable,
We are but warriors for the working day.
Our gayness, and our gilt, are all be-fmirch'd
With rainy marching in the painful field.
There's not a piece of feather in our hoft;
(Good argument, I hope, we will not fly :)
And time hath worn us into flovenry.

But, by the mass, our hearts are in the trim:
And my poor foldiers tell me, yet ere night
They'll be in fresher robes; for they will pluck
The gay new coats o'er the French foldiers' heads,
And turn them out of fervice. If they do,
(As, if God pleafe, they fhall), my ranfom then
Will foon be levy'd. Herald, fave thy labour.
Come thou no more for ranfom, gentle herald:
They fhall have none, I fwear, but these my joints;
Which if they have as I will leave 'em them,
Shall yield them little; tell the Constable

Mount. I fhall, King Harry: and fo fare thee well.` Thou never fhalt hear herald any more. [Exit. K. Henry. I fear thoul't once more come again for ranfom.

Enter York.

York. My Lord, most humbly on my knee I beg The leading of the vaward.

K. Henry. Take it, brave York; now, foldiers, march

away.

And how thou pleasest, God, dispose the day!

[Exeunt.

SCENE X. The field of battle.

Alarm, Excurfions. Enter Pistol, French foldier, and Boy. Pift. Yield, cur.

Fr. Sol. Je penfe, que vous efte le gentilhomme de bonne qualité.

That being dead, like to the bullet's grazing,
Breaks out into a fecond courfe of mitchief,

Killing in relapfe of mortality.

Let me fpeak proudly, &c.