King Henry.
Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more;
Or close the wall up with the English dead.
In peace, there's nothing so becomes a man
As modest stillness and humility:
But when the blast of war blows in our ears,
Then imitate the action of the Tyger;
Stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood,
Disguise fair nature with hard-favour'd rage;
Then lend the eye a terrible aspect;
Let it pry thro' the portage of the head,
Like the brass cannon: let the brow o'erwhelm it,
As fearfully, as doth a galled rock
O'er-hang and jutty his confounded base,
Swill'd with the wild and wastful ocean.
Now set the teeth, and stretch the nostril wide;
Hold hard the breath, and bend up every spirit
To his full height. Now on, you noblest English,
Whose blood is fetcht from fathers of war-proof;
Fathers, that, like so many Alexanders,
Have in these parts from morn till even fought,
And sheath'd their swords for lack of argument.
Dishonour not your mothers; now attest,
That those, whom you call'd fathers, did beget you.

Be copy now to men of grosser blood,
And teach them how to war; and you, good yeomen,
Whose limbs were made in England, shew us here
The mettle of your pasture: let us swear
That you are worth your breeding, which I doubt not:
For there is none of you so mean and base,
That hath not noble lustre in your eyes;
I see you stand like Greyhounds in the slips,
Straining upon the start. The game's a-foot:
Follow your spirit; and upon this charge,
Cry, God for Harry! England! and St. George! [Exeunt King, and Train. [Alarm, and Cannon go off. Enter Nim, Bardolph, Pistol, and Boy.

Bard.

On, on, on, on, on, to the breach, to the breach.

Nim.

'Pray thee, corporal, stay; the knocks are too hot; and for mine own part, I have not a case of lives: the humour of it is too hot, that is the very plain song of it.

Pist.
The plain song is most just; for humours do abound;
Knocks go and come: God's vassals drop and die;
And sword and shield, in bloody field, doth win immortal fame.

Boy.

Wou'd I were in an ale-house in London, I would give all my fame for a pot of ale and safety.

Pist.
And I; if wishes would prevail,
I wou'd not stay, but thither would I hye. Enter Fluellen.

Flu.
Up to the breach, you dogs; avaunt, you cullions.

Pist.
Be merciful, great Duke, to men of mould,
Abate thy rage, abate thy manly rage;
Good bawcock, bate thy rage; use lenity, sweet chuck.

Nim.

These be good humours; your honour wins bad humours.

Boy.

As young as I am, I have observ'd these three swashers. I am boy to them all three; but all they

three, though they would serve me, could not be man to me; for, indeed, three such Anticks do not amount to a man. For Bardolph, he is white-liver'd and red-fac'd; by the means whereof he faces it out, but fights not. For Pistol, he hath a killing tongue and a quiet sword; by the means whereof he breaks words, and keeps whole weapons. For Nim, he hath heard, that men of few words are the best men; and therefore he scorns to say his prayers, lest he should be thought a coward; but his few bad words are match'd with as few good deeds, for he never broke any man's head but his own, and that was against a post when he was drunk. They will steal any thing, and call it purchase. Bardolph stole a lute-case, bore it twelve leagues, and sold it for three half-pence. Nim and Bardolph are sworn brothers in filching; and in Calais they stole a fire-shovel. I knew, by that piece of service, the men would carry coals. They would have me as familiar with mens pockets, as their gloves or their hand-kerchers; which makes much against my manhood; for if I would take from another's pocket to put into mine, it is plain pocketting up of wrongs. I must leave them, and seek some better service; their villany goes against my weak stomach, and therefore I must cast it up.