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 Sun fhall greet them,
And draw their Honours reeking up to Heaven,
Leaving their earthly Parts to choak your Clime,
The smell whereof fhall breed a Plague in France.
Mark then abounding Valour in our English:
That being dead, like to the Bullets grafing,
Break out into a second courfe of Mischief,
Killing in relapfe of Mortality.

Let me fpeak proudly; tell the Constable,
We are but Warriors for the working day;
Our Gaynefs 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 flye:
And time hath worn us into flovenry.
But, by the Mafs, our Hearts are in the trim:
And my poor Soldiers tell me, yet e'er night
They'll be in fresher Robes, or they will pluck
The gay new Coats o'er the French Soldiers Heads,
And turn them out of Service. If they do this,
And if God please they fhall, my Ranfom then
Will foon be levied.

Herald, fave thou thy labour:

Come thou no more for Ranfom, gentle Herald,
They shall have none, I fwear, but thefe my Joints:
Which if they have, as I will leave 'em them,
Shall yield them little, tell the Conftable.

Mon. I fhall, King Harry And fo fare thee well.
Thou never fhalt hear Herald any more.

[Exit. K. Henry. I fear thou wilt once more come again for a Ranfom.

Enter York.

York. My Lord, moft humbly on my Knee I beg The leading of the Vaward.

K. Henry. Take it, brave York,

Now Soldiers, march away;

And how thou pleafeft, God, difpofe the Day. [Exeunt. Alarm. Excursions. Enter Pistol, French Soldier, and Boy. Pift. Yield, Cur.

Fr. Sol. Je pense que vous eftes le Gentil-home de bone qualité.

Pift. Quality calmy culture me. Art thou a Gentleman? What is thy Name? difcufs.

Fr. Sol. O Seigneur Dieu!

Pift. O Signieur Dewe fhould be a Gentleman: Perpend my words, O Signieur Dewe, and mark; Signieur Dewe, thou dieft on point of Fox, except, O Signeur, thou do give to me egregious Ranfom.

Fr. Sol. O prennez mifericorde ayez pitie de moy.

Pift. Moy fhall not ferve, I will have forty Moys; for 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'ft me Brass?

Fr. Sol. O pardonnez moy.

Pift. Say'st thou me fo? is that a Ton of Moys? Come hither, Boy, ask me this Slave 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

firk:

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 difpofée tout à cette heure de couper voftre gorge.

Pift, Owy, cuppele gorge parmafoy pefant, unlefs thou give me Crowns, brave Crowns, or mangled fhalt thou be by this my Sword.

Fr.Sol.

Fr. Sol. O je vous supplie pour l'amour de Dieu, me pardonner, je fuis Gentilhome de bonne maison, garde 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 Furement, de pardonner aucun prifonnier: neant moins pour les efcus que vous l'ay promettex, il eft content de vous donner la liberté de franchife.

Fr. Sol. Sur mes genoux je voux donne milles remerciemens, je me eftime heureux que je fuis tombé entre les mains d'un Chevalier, je pense, le plus brave, valiant, & tres eftimée Signeur d'Angleterre.

Pift. Expound unto me, Boy.

Boy. He gives you upon his knees a thousand thanks, and efteems himself happy, that he hath fal'n into the hands of one, as he thinks, the moft brave, valorous, and thriceworthy Signeur of England.

me.

Pift. As f fuck Blood, I will fome mercy fhew. Follow

Boy. Suivez le grand Capitain.

I did never know fo woful a Voice iffue from fo empty a
Heart; but the Song is true, the empty Veffel makes the
greatest found. Bardolf and Nim had ten times more Va-
lour than this roaring Devil i'th' old Play, that every one
may pair his Nails with a wooden Dagger, and they are
both Hang'd, and fo would this be, if he durft fteal any
thing adventurously. I muft ftay with the Lackies, with
the luggage of our Camp, the French might have a good
Prey of us, if he knew of it, for there is none to Guard it
it but Boys.
[Exit.

Enter Conftable, Orleans, Bourbon, Dauphin,
and Rambures.

Con. O Diable!

Orl. O Signeur ! le jour est perdu, toute eft perdu.
Dau. Mort de ma vie, all is confounded, all,

Reproach, and everlasting shame

Sits mocking in our Plumes.
O mefchante Fortune, do not run away.
Can. Why, all our Ranks are broke.

[A Short Alarm.

Dan. O perdurable fhame, let's ftab our felves : Be thefe the Wretches that we play'd at Dice for? Orl. Is this the King we fent to for his Ranfom? Bour. Shame, and eternal fhame, nothing but shame! Let us fly in once more back again,

And he that will not follow Bourbon now,

Let him go hence, and with his Cap in hand,
Like a bale Pander, hold the Chamber-door,.
Whilft by a bafe Slave, no gentler than my Dog,
His faireft Daughter is contaminated.

Con. Disorder, that hath spoil'd us, Friend us now,
Let us on heaps go offer up our Lives.

Orl. We are enow yet living in the Field, To fmother 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 fhort, elfe Shame will be too long. [Exeunt. Alarm. Enter the King and his Train,

with Prifoners.

K. Henry. 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 Majefty.
K. Henry. Lives he, good Uncle; thrice within this hour
I faw him down; thrice up again, and fighting:
From Helmet to the Spur all Blood he was.

Exe. In which array, brave Soldier, doth he lye
Larding the Plain; and by his bloody fide,
(Yoak-fellow to his Honour-owing wounds)
The Noble Earl of Suffolk alfo lyes.
Suffolk firft dyed, and Tork all hagled over
Comes to him, where in gore he lay infteeped,
And takes him by the Beard, kiffes the gashes,
That bloodily did yawn upon his Face.
He cries aloud: Tarry, my Coufin Suffolk,
My Soul fhall thine keep company to Heaven:
Tarry, fweet Soul, for mine, then flye a-breaft:
As in this glorious and we foughten Field
We kept together in our Chevalry.

Upon

Upon these words I came, and cheer'd him up;
He fmil'd me in the Face, raught me his Hand,
And with a feeble gripe, fays, Dear my Lord,
Commend my Service to my Soveraign;
So did he turn, and over Suffolk's Neck
He threw his wounded Arm, and kift his Lips,
And fo efpous'd to Death, with Blood he feal'd
A Teftament of Noble-ending Love:

The pretty and fweet manner of it forc'd

Thofe waters from me, which I would have stop'd,
But I had not much of Man in me,

And all my Mother came into mine Eyes,
And gave me up to Tears.

K. Henry. I blame you not,

For hearing this I must perforce compound
With mixtful Eyes, or they will iffue too.
But heark, what new Alarum is this fame?
The French have re-inforc'd their fcatter'd Men:
Then every Soldier kill his Prisoners.
Give the word through.

[Alarm.

Flu.

A CT IV. SCENE I.

·K

Enter Fluellen and Gower.'

Ill the poyes and the luggage, 'tis exprefly against the Law of Arms, 'tis as arrant a piece of Knavery, mark you now, as can be offer'd in your Confcience now, is it not?

Gow. 'Tis certain, there's not a Boy left alive, and the Cowardly Rafcals that ran away from the Battel ha' done this Slaughter; befides, they have burned and carried away all that was in the King's Tent, wherefore the King moft wor thily hath caus'd every Soldier to cut his Prifoner's Throat. O'tis a gallant King.

Flu. I, 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