Glou.
Where is the King?

Bed.
The King himself is rode to view their battle.

West.
Of fighting men they have full threescore thousand.

Exe.
There's five to one; besides, they all are fresh.

Sal.
God's arm strike 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 Glo'ster, and my good lord Exeter,
And my kind kinsman, warriors all, adieu!

Bed.
Farewel, good Salisbury, and good luck go with thee!(34) ^note

Exe. to Sal.
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.

West.
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 so?
My cousin Westmorland? no, my fair cousin,
If we are mark'd to die, we are enow
To do our country loss; and if to live,
The fewer men, the greater share of honour.
God's will! I pray thee, wish not one man more.
By Jove, I am not covetous of gold;
Nor care I, who doth feed upon my cost;
It yerns me not, if men my garments wear;
Such outward things dwell not in my desires:
But if it be a sin to covet honour,
I am the most offending soul alive.
No, faith, my lord, wish not a man from England:
God's peace, I would not lose so great an honour,
As one man more, methinks, would share from me,
For the best hopes I have. Don't wish one more:
Rather proclaim it (Westmorland) through my host,
That he, which hath no stomach to this fight,
Let him depart; his passport shall 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 feast of Crispian:
He that out-lives this day, and comes safe home,
Will stand a tip-toe when this day, is nam'd,
And rouze him at the name of Crispian:
He that shall live this day, and see old age,
Will yearly on the vigil feast his neighbours,
And say, to morrow is Saint Crispian:

Then will he strip his sleeve, and shew his scars:
Old men forget; yet shall not all forget,
But they'll remember, with advantages,
What feats they did that day. Then shall our names,
Familiar in their mouth as houshold words,
Harry the King, Bedford, and Exeter,
Warwick and Talbot, Salisbury and Glo'ster,
Be in their flowing cups freshly remember'd.
This story shall the good man teach his son:
And Crispin Crispian shall ne'er go by,
From this day to the ending of the world,
But we in it shall 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 so vile,
This day shall 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. Crispian's day. Enter Salisbury.

Sal.
My sov'reign lord, bestow your self with speed:
The French are bravely in their battels set,
And will with all expedience charge on us.

K. Henry.
All things are ready, if our minds be so.

West.
Perish the man, whose mind is backward now!

K. Henry.
Thou dost not wish more help from England, cousin?

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

K. Henry.
Why, now thou hast unwish'd five thousand men:
Which likes me better than to wish us one.
You know your places: God be with you all! A Tucket sounds. Enter Mountjoy.

Mount.
Once more I come to know of thee, King Harry,
If for thy ransom thou wilt now compound,
Before thy most assured over-throw:

For, certainly, thou art so near the gulf,
Thou needs must be englutted. Thus, in mercy,
The Constable desires thee, thou wilt mind
Thy followers of repentance; that their souls
May make a peaceful and a sweet retire
From off these fields; where, wretches, their poor bodies
Must lye and fester.

K. Henry.
Who hath sent thee now?

Mount.
The Constable of France.

K. Henry.
I pray thee, bear my former answer back.
Bid them atchieve me, and then sell my bones.
Good God! why should they mock poor fellows thus?
The man, that once did sell the Lion's skin
While the beast liv'd, was kill'd with hunting him.
And many of our bodies shall, no doubt,
Find native graves; upon the which, I trust,
Shall witness live in brass of this day's work.
And those that leave their valiant bones in France,
Dying like men, tho' buried in your dunghils,
They shall be fam'd; for there the sun shall greet them,
And draw their honours reeking up to heav'n;
Leaving their earthly parts to choak your clime,
The smell whereof shall breed a plague in France.
Mark then a bounding valour in our English:(35) ^note

(Good argument, I hope, we will not fly:)
And time hath worn us into slovenry.
But, by the mass, our hearts are in the trim:
And my poor soldiers tell me, yet ere 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,
(As, if God please, they shall) my ransom then
Will soon be levy'd. Herald, save thy labour.
Come thou no more for ransom, gentle herald;
They shall have none, I swear, but these my joints:
Which if they have as I will leave 'em them,
Shall yield them little, tell the Constable.

Mount.
I shall, King Harry: and so fare thee well.
Thou never shalt hear herald any more. [Exit.

K. Henry.
I fear, thou'lt once more come again for Ransom. Enter York.

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

K. Henry.
Take it, brave York; now, soldiers, march away.
And how thou pleasest, God, dispose the day! [Exeunt.

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