Bour. Shame, and eternal shame, nothing but shame!

Let us die instant: Once more back again; And he that will not follow Bourbon now, 'Let him go hence, and, with his cap in hand, Like a base pander, hold the chamber-door, Whilst by a slave, no gentler than my dog, His fairest daughter is contaminate.

Con. Disorder, that hath spoil'd us, friend

us now!

Let us, in heaps, go offer up our lives
Unto these English, or else die with fame.
Orl. We are enough yet living in the field,
To smother up the English in our throngs,
If any order might be thought upon.

Bour. The devil take order now'! I'll to the
throng;

Let life be short; else, shame will be too long.

SCENE VI.

Another part of the Field.

[Exeunt.

Alarums. Enter King HENRY and Forces; EXETER, and others.

K. Hen. Well have we done, thrice-valiant

countrymen :

But all's not done, yet keep the French the field. Exe. The Duke of York commends him to

your Majesty.

K. Hen. Lives he, good uncle? thrice, within this hour,

I saw him dowm; thrice up again, and fighting; From helmet to the spur, all blood he was.

Fre. In which array (brave soldier,) doth he lie, Larding the plain: and by his bloody side, (Yoke-fellow to his honour-owing wounds,) The noble Earl of Suffolk also lies.

Suffold first died: aud York, all haggled over, Comes to him, where in gore he lay insteep'd, And takes him by the beard; kisses the gashes, That bloodily did yawn upon his face;

--

And cries aloud,- Tarry, dear cousin Suffolk! My soul shall thine keep company to heaven: Tarry, sweet soul for mine, then fly a-breast; As, in this glorious and well-foughten field, We kept together in our chivalry!

Upon these words I came, and cheer'd him up
He smil'd me in the face, raught me his hand,
And, with a feeble gripe, says. Dear my Lord,
Commend my service to my Sovereign.

So did he turn, and over Suffolk's neck.
He threw his wounded arm, and kiss'd his lips;
And so, espous'd to death, with blood he seal'd
A testament of noble-ending love.

The pretty and sweet manner of it forc'd
Those waters from me, which I would have

stopp'd;

But I had not so much of man in ine,
But all my mother came into mine eyes,
And gave me up to tears.

K. Hen. I blame you not;

For, hearing this, I must perforce compound
With mistful eyes, or they will issue too.
But, hark! what new alarum is this same?
[Alarum.
The French have reinforc'd their scatter'd men: -
Then every soldier kill his prisoners;
Give the word through.

[Exeunt.

Another Part of the Field.

Alarums. Enter FLUELLEN and GoWER.

Flu. Kill the poys and the luggage! 'tis expressly against the law of arms: 'tis as arrant a piece of knavery, mark you now, as can be offer'd, in the 'orld: In your conscience now, is it not?

Gow. 'Tis certain, there's not a boy left alive; and the cowardly rascals, that ran from the battle, have done this slaughter: besides, they have burn'd and carried away all that was in the King's tent; wherefore the King most worthily, hath caused every soldier to cut his prisoner's throat. O, 'tis a gallant King!

Flu. Ay, he was porn at Monmouth, Captain Gower: What call you the town's name, where Alexander the pig was born?

Gow. Alexander the great.

Flu. Why, I pray you, is not pig, great? The pig, or the great, or the mighty, or the huge, or the magnanimous, are all one reckonings, save the phrase is a little variations.

Gow. I think, Alexander the great was born in Macedon; his father was called Philip of Macedon, as I take it.

Flu. I think, it is in Macedon, where Alexander is I tell you, Captain, porn. If you look in the maps of the 'orld, I warrant, you shall find, in the comparisons between Macedon and Monmouth, that the situations, look you, is both alike. There is a river in Macedon; and there is also moreover a river at Mon

mouth it is call'd Wye, at Monmouth; but it is out of my prains, what is the name of the other river; but 'tis all one, 'tis so like as my fingers is to my fingers, and there is salmons in both. If you mark Alexander's life well, Harry of Monmouth's life is come after it indifferent well; for there is figures in all things. Alexander (God knows, and you know,) in his rages, and his furies, and his wraths, and his cholers, and his moods, and his displeasures, and his indignations, and also being a little intoxicates in his prains, did, in his ales and his angers, look you, kill his pest friend, Clytus.

Gow. Our King is not like him in that; he never kill'd any of his friends.

to

Flu. It is not well done, mark you now, take the tales out of my mouth, ere it is made an end and finish'd. I speak but in the figures and comparisons of it: As Alexander is kill his friend Clytus, being in his ales and his cups; so also Harry Monmouth, being in his right wits and his goot judgements, is turn away the fat knight with the great pelly-doublet: he was' full of jests, and gypes, and knaveries, and mocks; I am forget his name.

Gow. Sir John Falstaff.
Flu. That is he: I can tell

men porn at Monmouth.

you,

Gow. Here comes his Majesty.

there is goot

Alarum. Enter King HENRY, with a part of the English forces; WARWICK, GLOSTER, EXETER and others.

K. Hen. I was not angry since I came to France, Until this instant. Take a trumpet, herald;

Ride thou unto the horsemen on yon hill;
If they will fight with us, bid them come down,
Or void the field; they do offend our sight:
If they'll do neither, we will come to them;
And make them skir away, as swift as stones
Enforced from the old Assyrian slings:
Besides, we'll cut the throats of those we have';
And not a man of them, that we shall take,
Shall taste our mercy: Go, and tell them so.

Enter MONTJOY.

Exe. Here comes the herald of the French,

my Liege.

Glo. His eyes are humbler than they us'd

to be.

K. Hen. How now! what means this, herald? know'st thou not,

That I have fin'd these bones of mine for ransom? Com'st thou again for ransom?

Mont. No, great King:

I come to thee for charitable licence,

That we may wander o'er this bloody field,
To book our dead, and then to bury them;
To sort our nobles from our common men;
For many of our Princes (woe the while!)
Lie drown'd and soak'd in mercenary blood;
(So do our vulgar drench their peasant limbs
In blood of Frinces;) and their wounded steeds
Fret fetlock deep in gore, and, with wild rage,
Yerk out their armed heels at their dead masters,
Killing them twice. O, give us leave, great
King,

To view the field in safety
Of their dead bodies.

and dispose

K. Hen. I tell thee truly, herald,
I know not, if the day be ours, or no;