Exe. Farewel, kind lord: fight valiantly to-day.

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 thoufand of those men in England
That do no work to-day.

[Ex. Sal.

K. Henry. What's he that wishes fo?
My cousin Westmorland? no my fair cousin,
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 wifh 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 desires:
But if it be a fin to covet honour,

I am the moft offending foul alive:

No faith, my lord, with not a man from England:
God's peace, I would not lofe so great an honour
As one man more methinks would fhare from me,
For the best hopes I have. Don't wish 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 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 out-lives this day and comes fafe home,
Will stand a tip-toe when this day is nam'd,
And rouze him at the name of Crifpian:
He that shall flive this day, and fee old age,

ffee this day, and live old age.

Will yearly on the vigil feast his neighbours,

And fay to-morrow is Saint Crifpian :

Then will he ftrip his fleeve and fhew his fears:
Old men forget; yet fhall not all forget,

But they'll remember with advantages

What feats they did that day. Then shall 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 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 sheds 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, beftow your self 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. 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 unwish'd five thoufand men:

yet all fhall not be forgot,
But he'll remember-

Which

Which likes me better than to wifh us one.
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

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 Constable defires thee thou wilt mind

Thy followers of repentance; that their fouls
May make a peaceful and a fweet retire

From off thefe 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 answer

back.

Bid them atchieve me and then fell my bones. Good God! why fhould they mock poor thuş?

The man that once did fell the Lion's skin

fellows

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 witness live in brafs of this day's work.
And those 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,

2

The

The smell whereof fhall breed a plague in France.*
Let me fpeak proudly; tell the Conftable,
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 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 frefher robes, or 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 please 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 leave them little, tell the Conftable.

Mount. I fhall, King Harry: and fo fare thee well. Thou never shalt hear herald any more.

Enter York.

Tork. My lord, moft humbly on my knee I beg The leading of the vaward.

[Exit.

K. Henry. Take it, brave Tork, now foldiers march away.

And how thou pleaseft, God, difpofe the day. [Exeunt.

SCENE

a plague in France.

Mark then abounding valour in our English:
That being dead, like to the bullets grafing,
Break out into a fecond courfe of mifchief,
Killing in relapfe of mortality.
Let me fpeak proudly; c.

SCENE X.

Alarm, Excurfions. Enter Piftol, French foldier and

Pif. YIELD; cur.

Boy.

Fr. Sol. Je pense que vous eftes le gentlehomme

de bonne qualite.

Pift. Quality calmy culture me, art thou a gentleman? what is thy name? discuss.

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 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 defchapper 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'ft 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

Pift. Bid him prepare, for I will cut his throat.

Fr. Sol.