fubject's foul is his own. Therefore fhould every foldier in the wars do as every fick man in his bed, wash every moth out of his confcience: and dying fo, death is to him advantage; or not dying, the time was well spent wherein fuch preparation was gained and in him that escapes it were not fin to think, that making God fo free an offer, he let him out-live that day to fee his greatness, and to teach others how they should prepare.

:

Will. 'Tis certain every man that dies ill, the ill is upon his own head, the King is not to answer for it. Bates. I do not defire he fhould answer for me, and yet

I determine to fight luftily for him.

K. Henry. I my self heard the King fay he would not be ranfom'd.

Will, Ay, he faid fo to make us fight chearfully; but when our throats are cut, he may be ranfom'd, and we ne'er the wifer.

K. Henry. If I live to fee it, I will never truft his word after.

Will. You pay him then; that's a perilous fhot out of an elder-gun, that a poor and private difpleasure can do against a Monarch! you may as well go about to turn the fun to ice, with fanning in his face with a peacock's feather you'll never truft his word after! come, 'tis a foolish faying.

K. Henry. Your reproof is fomething too round; I fhould be angry with you, if the time were convenient. Will. Let it be a quarrel between us if you live.

K. Henry. I embrace it.

Will. How fhall I know thee again?

K. Henry. Give me any gage of thine, and I will wear it in my bonnet: then if ever thou dar'ft acknowledge it, I will make it my quarrel.

Will. Here's my glove; give me another of thine.
K. Henry, There.

Will. This will I alfo wear in my cap; if ever thou come to me and fay after to-morrow, This is my glove; by this hand, I will give thee a box on the ear.

K. Henry. If ever I live to fee it, I will challenge it.
Will. Thou dar't as well be hang'd.

K, Henry,

K. Henry. Well, I will do it, though I take thee in the King's company.

Will. Keep thy word: fare thee well.

we

Bates. Be friends, you English fools, be friends; have French quarrels enow, if you could tell how to rec

kon.

SCENE IV. *

[Exeunt Soldierse

K. Henry. Upon the King! let us our lives, our fouls,'
Our debts, our careful wives, our children and
Our fins, lay on the King; he must bear all,
O hard condition, and twin-born with greatness,
Subjected to the breath of ev'ry fool,

Whose sense no more can feel but his own wringing.
What infinite heart-ease must Kings neglect,
"That private men enjoy! and what have Kings
That privates have not too, fave ceremony?
And what art thou, thou idol Ceremony?
What kind of God art thou? that suffer'ft more
Of mortal griefs than do thy worshippers.
What are thy rents? what are thy comings-in?
O ceremony, tell me but thy worth:
What is thy fhew of adoration?

Art thou ought elfe but place, degree and form,
Creating awe and fear in other men?

Wherein thou art lefs happy, being fear'd,

Than they in fearing.

What drink'ft thou oft, inftead of homage sweet,
But poifon'd flattery? O be fick, great Greatness,
And bid thy Ceremony give thee cure.
Think'ft thou the fiery feaver will go out
"With titles blown from adulation?

Will it give place to flexure and low bending?
Can't thou, when thou command'ft the beggar's knee,
Command the health of it? no, thou proud dream,
That play'ft fo fubtly with a King's repofe ;

SCENE IV.

K. Henry. Indeed the French may lay twenty French crowns to one they will beat us, for they bear them upon their fhoulders; but it is no English treafon to cut French crowns, and to-morrow the King himself will be a clipper.

Upon the King!

I am a King that find thee; and I know
"Tis not the balm, the scepter and the ball,
The fword, the mace, the crown imperial,
The enter-tiffued robe of gold and pearl,
The farfed title running 'fore the King,
The throne he fits on, nor the tide of pomp
That beats upon the high fhoar of this world;
No, not all these thrice-gorgeous ceremonies,
Not all thefe laid in bed majestical,

Can fleep fo foundly as the wretched flave,
Who with a body fill'd, and vacant mind,
Gets him to reft, cramm'd with distressful bread,
Never fees horrid night, the child of hell,
But like a lacquey, from the rife to set,
Sweats in the eye of Phoebus; and all night
Sleeps in Elyfium; next day after dawn
Doth rife, and help Hyperion to his horfe ;
And follows fo the ever-running year
With profitable labour to his grave :
And (but for ceremony) fuch a wretch,

Winding up days with toil, and nights with fleep,
Hath the fore-hand and vantage of a King:
The flave, a member of the country's peace,
Enjoys it, but in grofs brain little wots

What watch the King keeps to maintain the peace,
Whole hours the peasant beft advantages.

SCENE V. Enter Erpingham.

Erp. My Lord, your Nobles jealous of your absence, Seek through your camp to find you.

K. Henry. Good old Knight,

Collect them all together at my tent:

I'll be before thee.

Erp. I fhall do't, my Lord.

[Exit.

K. Henry, O God of battels! fteel my foldiers hearts, Poffefs them not with fear: take from them now The fenfe of reck'ning of th'oppofed numbers Which ftand before them! Not to-day, O Lord, O not to-day, think not upon the fault My father made in compaffing the crown! I Richard's body have interred new,

VOL. V.

U

And

And on it have beftow'd more contrite tears,
Than from it iffu'd forced drops of blood.
Five hundred poor I have in yearly pay,
Who twice a-day their wither'd hands hold up
Tow'rd heaven to pardon blood: and I have built
Two chauntries, where the fad and solemn priests
Sing ftill for Richard's foul. More will I do;
Tho' all that I can do is nothing worth,
Since that my penitence comes after all,
Imploring pardon.

Glou. My Liege !

Enter Gloucefter.

K. Henry. My brother Glofter's voice ? I know thy errand, I will go with thee:

The day, my friends, and all things ftay for me. [Exeunt, SCENE VI. The French Camp.

Enter the Dauphin, Orleans, Rambures and Beaumont,
Orl. The fun doth gild our armour, up, my Lords.*
Con. To horfe, you gallant Princes, ftrait to horfe!
Do but behold yon poor and starved band,

And your fair fhew fhall fuck away their fouls,
Leaving them but the fhales and husks of men,
There is not work enough for all our hands,
Scarce blood enough in all their fickly veins
To give each naked coutelas a stain,

That our French gallants fhall to-day draw out,
And sheath for lack of sport. Let's but blow on them,

up, my Lords.

Dau. Monte Cheval: my horfe, valet, lacquay: ha!

Orl. O brave fpirit!

Dau. Via! les eaux & la terre.

Orl. Rien puis! le air & feu.
Dau. Ciel, Coufin Orleans.

Enter Conftable.

Now, my Lord Conftable!

Con. Hark how our steeds for prefent fervice neigh.
Dau. Mount them and make incifion in their hides,

That their hot blood may fpin in English eyes,

And daunt them with fuperfluous courage: ha!

Ram. What, will you have them weep our horfes blood?
How fhall we then behold their natural tears?

Enter Meffenger.

Meff. The English are embattell'd, you French Peers.

Con. To horfe --

The

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 swarm

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

But that our honours muft not.
A very little, little, let us do ;
And all is done.

What's to fay?

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, drooping the hide and hips:
The gum down-roping from their pale-dead eyes;
And in their pale dull mouths the jymold bitt
Lyes foul with 'chaw'd grafs, ftill and motionless i
And their executors the knavifh crows

Fly o'er them, all impatient for their hour.
Defcription cannot fuit it felf in words,

The life of fuch a battle to demonftrate,

In life fo livelefs as it fhews it felf.

Con. They've faid their prayers, and they ftay for death. Dau. Shall we go fend them dinners and fresh futes, And give their fafting horfes provender,

And after fight with them?

Con, I ftay but for my guard on to the field

I will the banner from a trumpet take,

U 2

And