Chorus.
Now entertain conjecture of a time,
When creeping murmur, and the poring dark,
^{3 note}

From camp to camp, through the foul womb of night,
The hum of either army stilly sounds;
That the sixt Sentinels almost receive
The secret whispers of each other's watch.
Fire answers fire; and through their paly flames
Each battle sees ^{4 note}the other's umber'd face.
Steed threatens steed, in high and boastful neighs
Piercing the night's dull ear; and from the tents,
The armourers accomplishing the knights,
With busy hammers closing rivets up6Q0165,
Give dreadful note of preparation.
The country cocks do crow, the clocks do toll;
And (the third hour of drousy morning nam'd)
Proud of their numbers and secure in soul,
The confident and over lusty French
^{5 note}Do the low-rated English play at dice;
And chide the cripple tardy-gated night,
Who, like a foul and ugly witch, does limp
So tediously away. The poor condemned English,
Like sacrifices, by their watchful fires
Sit patiently, and inly ruminate
The morning's danger: and their gesture sad,
^{6 note}

For forth he goes and visits all his host,
Bids them good morrow with a modest smile,
And calls them brothers, friends, and countrymen.
Upon his royal face there is no note,
How dread an army hath enrounded him;
Nor doth he dedicate one jot of colour
Unto the weary and all-watched night,
But freshly looks and over-bears attaint,
With chearful semblance and sweet majesty;
That ev'ry wretch, pining and pale before,
Beholding him, plucks comfort from his looks.
A largess universal, like the sun,
His lib'ral eye doth give to ev'ry one,
Thawing cold ^{7 note}
fear. Then, mean and gentle, all
Behold, as may unworthiness define,
A little touch of Harry in the night.
And so our scene must to the battle fly,
Where, O for pity! we shall much disgrace,
With four or five most vile and ragged foils,
Right ill dispos'd, in brawl ridiculous,
The name of Agincourt. Yet sit and see,
* ^noteMinding true things by what their mock'ries be. Exit.

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