And ufe it for my hafte. Come, come away,
The fun is high, and we out-wear the day.

SCENE VII. The English Camp.

[Exeunt.

Enter Gloucefter, Bedford, Exeter, Erpingham with all the Hoft, Salisbury and Westmorland.

Glou. Where is the King?

Bed. The King himself is rode to view their battel.
Weft. Of fighting men they have full threescore thousand.
Exe. There's five to one, befides they are all 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 Glofter, and my good Lord Exeter,
And my kind kinfman, warriors all, adieu !

Bed, Farewel, good Salfbury, and mor uck go with thee!
Exe. Farewel, kind Lord: fight valiantly to-day:

And yet I do thee wrong to mind thee of it,

For thou art fram'd of the firm truth of valour. [Exit Sal. Bed. He is as full of valour as of kindness,

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 Westmorland? 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 fhare of honour.
God's will! I pray thee with 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 g rments wear;
Such outward things dwell not in my defires :
But if it be a fin to covet honour,

I am the moft offending foul alive.

No, 'faith, my Lord, wish not a man from England:
God's peace, I would not lofe fo 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 pafsport fhall be made,
And crowns for convoy put into his purfe ::
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 Crifpian:
He that out-lives this day and comes fafe home,.
Will ftand a tip-toe when this day is nam'd,
And rouze him at the name of Crifpian:
He that fhall live this day, and fee old age,
Will yearly on the Vigil feaft his neighbours,
And fay to-morrow is Saint Crifpian:
Then will he ftrip his fleeve and fhew his fcars:
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 ftory fhall the good man teach his fon :
And Crifpine 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 fheds his blood with me
Shall be my brother; be he ne'er fo vile,
This day, fhall 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 fov'reign Lord, bestow yourself with speed: The French are bravely in their battels fet,

And will with all expedience charge on us.

K. Henry. All things are ready, if our minds be fo. Weft. Perish the man whofe mind is backward now!

U 3

K. Henry,

K. Henry. Thou doft not with more help from England,

coufin?

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

K. Henry. Why, now thou haft unwifh'd twelve thou fand men :

Which likes me better than to with us one.
You know your places: God be with you all!
SCENE VIII. A Tucket founds. Enter Mountjoy.
Mount. Once more I come to know of thee, King Harry,
If for thy ranfom thou wilt now compound,
Before thy moft affured overthrow

For certainly thou art fo near the gulf,

Thou needs must be englutted. Thus in mercy,

The Conftable defires thee, thou wilt mind

Thy followers of repentance; that their fouls

May make a peaceful and a fweet retire

From off these fields; where, wretches, their poor bodies
Muft lye and fefter.

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

K. Henry. I pray thee, bear my former anfwer back. Bid them atchieve me and then fell my bones.

Good God! why fhould they mock poor fellows thus ?
The man that once did fell the Lion's fkin

While the beast liv'd, was kill'd with hunting him.
And many of our bodies fhall, no doubt,
Find native graves; upon the which, I truft,
Shall witness live in brafs of this day's work.
And thofe that leave their valiant bones in France,
Dying like men, tho' buried in your dunghils,
They fhall be fam'd; for there the fun fhall greet them,
And draw their honours reeking up to heav'n,
Leaving their earthly parts to choak your clime,
The smell whereof fhall breed a plague in Irance,

- a plague in France.

Mark then abounding valour in our English:
That being dead, like to the bullet's grafing
Break out into a fecond courfe of mischief,
Killing in relapfe of mortality.
Let me ipeak proudly ; &c.

Let

Let me fpeak proudly; tell the Constable,
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 foldier's heads,
And turn them out of fervice. If they do,
(As if God please they fhall) my ransom 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 leave them little, tell the Constable.

Mount. Ifhall, King Harry: and fo fare thee well.
Thou never fhalt hear herald any more.

Enter York.

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

[Exit.

K. Henry. Take it, brave York. Now, foldiers, march

away.

And how thou pleafeft, God, difpofe the day!

[Exeunt.

SCENE IX. The Field of Battle. Alarm, Excurfions. Enter Pistol, French Soldier and Boy. Pift. Yield, cur.

Fr. Sol. Je pense que vous eftes le gentilhomme de bonne qualité.

Pift. Quality calmy cufture me, art thou a gentleman ? what is thy name? difcufs.

Fr. Sol. O Seigneur Dieu !

Pift. O Signieur Dewe should be a gentleman:

Perpend my words, O Signieur Dewe, and mark;
O Signieur Dewe, thou dieft on point of fox,
Except, O Signieur, thou do give to me
Egregious raniom.

Fr. Sol. O prennes mifericorde, ayez pitiè de moy.

I

Pift. Moy fhall not ferve, I will have forty moys; or I will fetch thy rym out at thy throat, in drops of crimson blood.

Fr. Sol. Eft-il impoffible d'efchapper la force de ton bras ? Pift. Brafs, cur?

Thou damned and luxurious mountain" goat, offer'st me brafs?

Fr. Sol. O pardonnez moy.

Pift. Say't thou me fo? is that a ton of moys?
Come hither, Boy, ask me this flave in French,
What is his name.

Boy. Efcoute, comment eftes vous appellé ?
Fr. Sol. Monfieur le Fer.

Boy. He fays his name is Mr. Fer.

Pift. Mr. Fer! I'll fer him and ferk him, and ferret him: difcufs the fame in French unto him.

Boy. I do not know the French for fer, and ferret, and

ferk.

1

Pift. Bid him prepare, for I will cut his throat.
Fr. Sol. Que dit-il, Monfieur?

Boy. Il me commande de vous dire que vous vous teniez preft, car ce foldat icy eft difpofé tout à cette heure de couper voftre gorge.

Pift. Owy, cuppelle gorge parmafoy pefant, unless thou give me crowns, brave crowns: or mangled fhalt thou be by this my fword.

Fr. Sol. O je vous fupplie pour l'amour de Dieu me pardonner, je fuis gentilhomme de bonne maisin, gardéz ma vie, je vous donneray deux cents efcus.

Pift. What are his words?

Boy. He prays you to fave his life, he is a gentleman of a good houfe, and for his ranfom he will give you two hundred crowns.

Pift. Tell him my fury fhall abate:, and I the crowns will take.

Fr. Sol. Petit Monfieur, que dit-il?

Boy. Encore qu'il eft contre fon jurement de pardonner aucun prifonnier: neantmoins pour les efcus que vous luy promettez, il eft content de vous donner la liberté de franchise.

Fr. Sol, Sur mes genoux je vous donne villes remerciemens,