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
Farewel, good Salisbury; and good luck go with thee!
Exe.
Exe. to Sal.
Farewel, kind lord; fight valiantly to-day:
-- 123 --
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 noteMy 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 noteBy 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.
-- 124 --
This day is call'd—the feast of 5 noteCrispian:
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 notewith 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 noteFrom this day to the ending of the world,
-- 125 --
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
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 9 noteupon saint Crispin's day.
Enter Salisbury.
Sal.
My sovereign lord, bestow yourself with speed:
The French are 1 notebravely in their battles set,
And will with all expedience 2 notecharge 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
thou hast unwish'd five thousand men;
-- 126 --
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 many4 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,
-- 127 --
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
Mark then a bounding valour in our English;
That, being dead, like to the bullet's grazing,
Breaks out into a second course of mischief,
6 note
Killing in relapse of mortality.
-- 128 --
Let me speak proudly;—Tell the constable,
We are but7 notewarriors for the working-day:
Our gayness, and our gilt8 note
, are all besmirch'd
With rainy marching in the painful field;
There's not a piece of feather in our host,
(Good argument, I hope, we shall 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 this,
(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 to them,
Shall yield them little, tell the Constable.
Mont.
I shall, king Harry. And so fare thee well:
-- 129 --
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.
Samuel Johnson [1778], The plays of William Shakspeare. In ten volumes. With the corrections and illustrations of various commentators; to which are added notes by Samuel Johnson and George Steevens. The second edition, Revised and Augmented (Printed for C. Bathurst [and] W. Strahan [etc.], London) [word count] [S10901].
