The royal captain of this ruin'd band,
Walking from watch to watch, from tent to tent,
Let him cry—Praise and glory on his head!
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 cheerful semblance, and sweet majesty;
That every wretch, pining and pale before,
Beholding him, plucks comfort from his looks:
A largess universal, like the sun,
His liberal eye doth give to every one,
Thawing cold ^{4 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;
^{5 note}Minding true things by what their mockeries be. [Exit.

SCENE I. The English camp, at Agincourt. Enter King Henry, Bedford, and Gloster.

K. Henry.
Gloster, 'tis true, that we are in great danger;
The greater therefore should our courage be.—
Good morrow, brother Bedford.—God Almighty!
There is some soul of goodness in things evil,
Would men observingly distil it out;
For our bad neighbour makes us early stirrers,
Which is both healthful, and good husbandry:
Besides, they are our outward consciences,
And preachers to us all; admonishing,
That we should dress us fairly for our end. 9Q0796
Thus may we gather honey from the weed,
And make a moral of the devil himself. Enter Erpingham.
Good morrow, ^{6 note}

Erping.
Not so, my liege; this lodging likes me better,
Since I may say—now lie I like a king.

K. Henry.
'Tis good for men to love their present pains,
Upon example; so the spirit is eased:
And, when the mind is quicken'd, out of doubt,

The organs, though defunct and dead before,
Break up their drowsy grave, and newly move
^{7 note}

Glo.
We shall, my liege.

Erping.
Shall I attend your grace?

K. Henry.
No, my good knight;
Go with my brothers to my lords of England:
I and my bosom must debate a while,
And then I would no other company.

Erping.
The Lord in heaven bless thee, noble Harry!

K. Henry.
God-a-mercy, old heart! thou speak'st cheerfully. [Exeunt. Enter Pistol.

Pist.
Qui va lá?

K. Henry.
A friend.

Pist.
Discuss unto me; Art thou officer?
Or art thou base, common, and popular?

K. Henry.
I am a gentleman of a company.

Pist.
Trail'st thou the puissant pike?

K. Henry.
Even so: What are you?

Pist.
As good a gentleman as the emperor.

K. Henry.
Then you are a better than the king.

Pist.
The king's a bawcock, and a heart of gold;

A lad of life, an imp of fame^{8 note};
Of parents good, of fist most valiant:
I kiss his dirty shoe, and from my heart-strings
I love the lovely bully. What's thy name?

K. Henry.
Harry le Roy.

Pist.
Le Roy! a Cornish name: art thou of Cornish crew?

K. Henry.
No, I am a Welshman.

Pist.
Know'st thou Fluellen?

K. Henry.
Yes.

Pist.
Tell him, I'll knock his leek about his pate
Upon saint David's day.

K. Henry.

Do not you wear your dagger in your cap that day, lest he knock that about yours.

Pist.

Art thou his friend?

K. Henry.

And his kinsman too.

Pist.

The figo for thee then!

K. Henry.

I thank you: God be with you!

Pist.

My name is Pistol call'd.

K. Henry.

It sorts^{9 note}
well with your fierceness.

Gow.

Captain Fluellen,—

Flu.

So! in the name of Cheshu Christ, speak fewer. It is the greatest admiration in the universal 'orld, when the true and auncient prerogatifes and laws of the wars is not kept: if you would take the pains but to examine the wars of Pompey the great, you shall find, I warrant you, that there is no tittle tattle,

nor pibble pabble, in Pompey's camp; I warrant you, you shall find the ceremonies of the wars, and the cares of it, and the forms of it, and the sobriety of it, and the modesty of it, to be otherwise.

Gow.

Why, the enemy is loud; you heard him all night.

Flu.

If the enemy is an ass and a fool, and a prating coxcomb, is it meet, think you, that we should also, look you, be an ass, and a fool, and a prating coxcomb; in your own conscience now?

Gow.

I will speak lower.

Flu.

I pray you, and beseech you, that you will.

K. Henry.

Though it appear a little out of fashion, There is much care and valour in this Welshman.

Court.

Brother John Bates, is not that the morning which breaks yonder?

Bates.

I think it be: but we have no great cause to desire the approach of day.

Will.

We see yonder the beginning of the day, but, I think, we shall never see the end of it.—Who goes there?

K. Henry.

A friend.

Will.

Under what captain serve you?

K. Henry.

Under Sir Thomas Erpingham.

Will.

A good old commander, and a most kind gentleman: I pray you, what thinks he of our estate?

K. Henry.

Even as men wreck'd upon a sand, that look to be wash'd off the next tide.

Bates.

He hath not told his thought to the king?

K. Henry.

No; nor it is not meet he should. For, though I speak it to you, I think, the king is but a man, as I am: the violet smells to him, as it doth to me; the element shews to him, as it doth to me; all

his senses have but human^{1 note}conditions: his ceremonies laid by, in his nakedness he appears but a man; and though his affections are higher mounted than ours, yet, when they stoop, they stoop with the like wing; therefore when he sees reason of fears, as we do, his fears, out of doubt, be of the same relish as ours are: Yet, in reason, no man should possess him with any appearance of fear, lest he, by shewing it, should dishearten his army.

Bates.

He may shew what outward courage he will: but, I believe, as cold a night as 'tis, he could wish himself in the Thames up to the neck; and so I would he were, and I by him, at all adventures, so we were quit here.

K. Henry.

By my troth, I will speak my conscience of the king; I think, he would not wish himself any where but where he is.

Bates.

Then, 'would he were here alone; so should he be sure to be ransom'd, and a many poor men's lives sav'd.

K. Henry.

I dare say, you love him not so ill, to wish him here alone; howsoever you speak this, to feel other men's minds: Methinks, I could not die any where so contented, as in the king's company; his cause being just, and his quarrel honourable.

Will.

That's more than we know.

Bates.

Ay, or more than we should seek after; for we know enough, if we know we are the king's subjects: if his cause be wrong, our obedience to the king wipes the crime of it out of us.

Will.

But, if the cause be not good, the king himself hath a heavy reckoning to make; when all those

legs, and arms, and heads, chop'd off in a battle, shall join together at the latter day, and cry all—We dy'd at such a place; some, swearing; some, crying for a surgeon; some, upon their wives left poor behind them; some, upon the debts they owe; some, upon^{2 note}
their children rawly left. I am afeard there are few die well, that die in a battle; for how can they charitably dispose of any thing, when blood is their argument? Now, if these men do not die well, it will be a black matter for the king that led them to it; whom to disobey, were against all proportion of subjection.

K. Henry.

So, if a son, that is by his father sent about merchandize, do sinfully miscarry upon the sea, the imputation of his wickedness, by your rule, should be imposed upon his father that sent him: or if a servant, under his master's command, transporting a sum of money, be assail'd by robbers, and die in many irreconcil'd iniquities, you may call the business of the master the author of the servant's damnation: —But this is not so: the king is not bound to answer the particular endings of his soldiers, the father of his son, nor the master of his servant; for they purpose not their death, when they purpose their services. Besides, there is no king, be his cause never so spotless, if it come to the arbitrement of swords, can try it out with all unspotted soldiers. Some, peradventure, have on them the guilt of premeditated and contrived murder; some, of beguiling virgins with the broken seals of perjury; some, making the wars their bulwark, that have before gored the gentle bosom of peace with pillage and robbery. Now if these men have defeated the law, and out-run native

punishment^{3 note}, though they can out-strip men, they have no wings to fly from God: war is his beadle, war is his vengeance; so that here men are punished, for before-breach of the king's laws, in now the king's quarrel: where they feared the death, they have borne life away; and where they would be safe, they perish: Then if they die unprovided, no more is the king guilty of their damnation, than he was before guilty of those impieties for the which they are now visited. ^{4 note}Every subject's duty is the king's; but every subject's soul is his own. Therefore should every soldier in the wars do as every sick man in his bed, wash every moth out of his conscience: and dying so, death is to him advantage; or not dying, the time was blessedly lost, wherein such preparation was gained: and, in him that escapes, it were not sin to think, that, making God so free an offer, he let him out-live that day to see his greatness, and to teach others how they should prepare.

Will.

'Tis certain, that every man that dies ill, the ill is upon his own head, the king is not to answer for it.

Bates.

I do not desire he should answer for me; and yet I determine to fight lustily for him.

K. Henry.

I myself heard the king say, he would not be ransom'd.

Will.

Ay, he said so, to make us fight cheerfully: but, when our throats are cut, he may be ransom'd, and we ne'er the wiser.

K. Henry.

If I live to see it, I will never trust his word after.

Will.

You pay him then! ^{5 note}that's a perilous shot out of an elder gun, that a poor and private displeasure can do against a monarch! you may as well go about to turn the sun to ice, with fanning in his face with a peacock's feather. You'll never trust his word after! come, 'tis a foolish saying.

K. Henry.

Your reproof is something too round; I should be angry with you, if the time were convenient.

Will.

Let it be a quarrel between us, if you live.

K. Henry.

I embrace it.

Will.

How shall I know thee again?

K. Henry.

Give me any gage of thine, and I will wear it in my bonnet: then, if ever thou dar'st acknowledge it, I will make it my quarrel.

Will.

Here's my glove; give me another of thine.

K. Henry.

There.

Will.

This will I also wear in my cap: if ever thou come to me and say, after to-morrow, This is my glove, by this hand, I will take thee a box on the ear.

K. Henry.

If ever I live to see it, I will challenge it.

Will.

Thou dar'st as well be hang'd.

K. Henry.

Well, I will do it, though I take thee in the king's company.

Will.

Keep thy word: fare thee well.

Bates.

Be friends, you English fools, be friends; we have French quarrels enough, if you could tell how to reckon.

K. Henry.

Indeed, the French may lay ^{6 note}

French crowns to one, they will beat us; for they bear them on their shoulders: But it is no English treason, to cut French crowns; and, to-morrow, the king himself will be a clipper.

O ceremony, shew me but thy worth!
What is thy soul, O adoration?
Art thou aught else but place, degree, and form,
Creating awe and fear in other men?
Wherein thou art less happy being fear'd,
Than they in fearing.
What drink'st thou oft, instead of homage sweet,
But poison'd flattery? O, be sick, great greatness,
And bid thy ceremony give thee cure!
Think'st thou, the fiery fever will go out
With titles blown from adulation?
Will it give place to flexure and low bending?
Can'st thou, when thou command'st the beggar's knee,
Command the health of it? No, thou proud dream,
That play'st so subtly with a king's repose,
I am a king, that find thee: and I know,
'Tis not the balm, the scepter, and the ball,
The sword, the mace, the crown imperial,

The enter-tissued robe of gold and pearl,
The ^{9 note}

Enter Erpingham.

Erp.
My lord, your nobles, jealous of your absence,
Seek through your camp to find you.

K. Henry.
Good old knight,
Collect them all together at my tent:
I'll be before thee.

Erp.
I shall do't, my lord. [Exit.

K. Henry.
O God of battles! steel my soldiers' hearts!
Possess them not with fear; ^{2 note}

And on it have bestow'd more contrite tears,
Than from it issu'd forced drops of blood.
Five hundred poor I have in yearly pay,
Who twice a day their wither'd hands hold up
Toward heaven, to pardon blood; and I have built
Two chantries, where the sad and solemn priests
Sing still for Richard's soul. More will I do:
Though all that I can do, is nothing worth;
^{3 note}

Glo.
My liege!

K. Henry.
My brother Gloster's voice?—Ay;
I know thy errand, I will go with thee:—
The day, my friends, and all things stay for me. [Exeunt.

SCENE II. The French camp. Enter the Dauphin, Orleans, Rambures, and Beaumont.

Orl.
The sun doth gild our armour; up, my lords.

Dau.

Montez a cheval:—My horse! valet! lacquay! ha!

Orl.

O brave spirit!

Dau.
^{4 note}

Orl.
Rien plus? l'air & le feu.—

Dau.
Ciel! cousin Orleans.— Enter Constable.
Now, my lord Constable!

Con.
Hark, how our steeds for present service neigh.

Dau.
Mount them, and make incision in their hides;
That their hot blood may spin in English eyes,
And daunt them ^{5 note}with superfluous courage: Ha!

Ram.
What, will you have them weep our horses' blood?
How shall we then behold their natural tears? Enter a Messenger.

Mess.
The English are embattled, you French peers.

Con.
To horse, you gallant princes! strait to horse!
Do but behold yon poor and starved band,
And your fair shew shall suck away their souls,
Leaving them but the shales and husks of men.
There is not work enough for all our hands;
Scarce blood enough in all their sickly veins,
To give each naked curtle-ax a stain,
That our French gallants shall to-day draw out,
And sheath for lack of sport: let us but blow on them,
The vapour of our valour will o'erturn them.
'Tis positive 'gainst all exceptions, lords,
That our superfluous lacqueys, and our peasants,—
Who, in unnecessary action, swarm
About our squares of battle,—were enough
To purge this field of such a hilding foe;
Though we, upon this mountain's basis by
Took stand for idle speculation:
But that our honours must not. What's to say?
A very little little let us do,
And all is done. Then let the trumpets sound
^{6 note}

For our approach shall so much dare the field,
That England shall couch down in fear, and yield. Enter Grandpré.

Grand.
Why do you stay so long, my lords of France?
Yon island carrions, desperate of their bones,
Ill-favour'dly become the morning field:
Their ragged curtains poorly are let loose,
And our air shakes them passing scornfully.
Big Mars seems bankrupt in their beggar'd host,
And faintly through a rusty beaver peeps.
^{7 note}

Lies foul with chew'd grass, still and motionless;
And ^{9 note}their executors, the knavish crows,
Fly o'er them all, impatient for their hour.
Description cannot suit itself in words,
To demonstrate the life of such a battle
In life so lifeless as it shews itself.

Con.
They have said their prayers, and they stay for death.

Dau.
Shall we go send them dinners, and fresh suits,
And give their fasting horses provender,
And after fight with them?

Con.
^{1 note}

And use it for my haste. Come, come away!
The sun is high, and we out-wear the day. [Exeunt. SCENE III. The English camp. Enter Gloster, Bedford, Exeter, Erpingham, with all the English host; Salisbury and Westmoreland.

Glo.
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 heaven,
Then, joyfully,—my noble lord of Bedford,—
My dear lord Gloster,—and my good lord Exeter,—
And my kind kinsman,—warriors all, adieu!

Bed.
^{2 note}

Exe. 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 Salisbury.

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?
^{3 note}My cousin Westmoreland?—No, my fair cousin:
If we are mark'd to die, we are enough
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.
^{4 note}By Jove, I am not covetous for 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 coz, 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 hope I have. O, do not wish one more:
Rather proclaim it, Westmoreland, 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 ^{5 note}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 friends,
And say—to-morrow is saint Crispian:
Then will he strip his sleeve, and shew his scars.
Old men forget; yet all shall be forgot,
But they'll remember, ^{6 note}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 Gloster,—
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,
^{7 note}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 ^{8 note}

Sal.
My sovereign lord, bestow yourself with speed:
The French are ^{1 note}bravely in their battles set,
And will with all expedience ^{2 note}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, might fight this battle out!

K. Henry.
Why, now ^{3 note}

Which likes me better, than to wish us one.—
You know your places: God be with you all! Tucket. Enter Montjoy.

Mont.
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. Besides, 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 lie and fester.

K. Henry.
Who hath sent thee now?

Mont.
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.
A many^{4 note} 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, though buried in your dunghills,

They shall be fam'd; for there the sun shall greet them,
And draw their honours reeking up to heaven;
Leaving their earthly parts to choak your clime,
The smell whereof shall breed a plague in France.
^{5 note}

Let me speak proudly;—Tell the constable,
We are but^{7 note}warriors for the working-day:
Our gayness, and our gilt^{8 note}

Mont.
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 the Duke of 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. SCENE IV. The field of battle. Alarum, excursions. Enter Pistol, French soldier, and Boy.

Pist.

Yield, cur.

Fr. Sol.

Je pense, que vous estes le gentilhomme de bonne qualité.

Pist.

^{9 note}

Fr. Sol.

O seigneur Dieu!

Pist.
O, signieur Dew should be a gentleman^{2 note}:—

Perpend my words, O signieur Dew, and mark;—
O signieur Dew, ^{3 note}

Fr. Sol.
O, prennez misericorde! ayez pitié de moy!

Pist.
Moy shall not serve, I will have forty moys;
^{4 note}

Fr. Sol.
Est-il impossible d'eschapper la force de ton
bras?

Pist.
^{5 note}

Fr. Sol.
O, pardonnez moy!

Pist.
Say'st thou me so? is that ^{6 note}a ton of moys?—
Come hither, boy; Ask me this slave in French,
What is his name.

Boy.

Escoutez; Comment estes vous appellé?

Fr. Sol.

Monsieur le Fer.

Boy.

He says, his name is—master Fer.

Pist.

Master Fer! I'll fer him, and firk him^{7 note}

Boy.

I do not know the French for fer, and ferret, and firk.

Pist.

Bid him prepare, for I will cut his throat.

Fr. Sol.

Que dit-il, monsieur?

Boy.

Il me commande de vous dire que vous vous teniez prest; car ce soldat icy est dispose tout à cette heure de couper vostre gorge.

Pist.
Ouy, couper gorge, par ma foy, pesant,
Unless thou give me crowns, brave crowns;
Or mangled shalt thou be by this my sword.

Fr. Sol.

O, je vous supplie pour l'amour de Dieu, me pardonner! Je suis gentilhomme de bonne maison; gardez ma vie, & je vous donneray deux cents escus.

Pist.

What are his words?

Boy.

He prays you to save his life: he is a gentleman of a good house; and, for his ransom, he will give you two hundred crowns.

Pist.
Tell him,—my fury shall abate, and I
The crowns will take.

Fr. Sol.

Petit monsieur, que dit-il?

Boy.

Encore qu'il est contre son jurement, de pardonner aucun prisonnier; neantmoins, pour les escus que vous l'avez promettez, il est content de vous donner la liberté, le franchisement.

Fr. Sol.

Sur mes genoux, je vous donne mille remerciemens: & je m'estime heureux que je suis tombé tombe entre les mains d'un chevalier, je pense, le plus brave, valiant, & tres distingué seigneur d' Angleterre.

Pist.

Expound unto me, boy.

Boy.

He gives you, upon his knees, a thousand thanks: and esteems himself happy that he hath fallen into the hands of one, (as he thinks) the most brave, valorous, and thrice-worthy signieur of England.

Pist.

As I suck blood, I will some mercy shew.— Follow me, cur.

Boy.

Suivez vous le grand capitaine.

I did never know so full a voice issue from so empty a heart: but the saying is true,—The empty vessel makes the greatest sound. Bardolph, and Nym, had ten times more valour than ^{8 note}

old play, that every one may pare his nails with a wooden dagger; yet they are both hang'd; and so would this be, if he durst steal any thing advent'rously. I must stay with the lacqueys, 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, but boys.