War.
My Lords the French are very strong.

Exe.
There is ^note fiue to one, and yet they all are ^note fresh.

War.
Of fighting men they haue full fortie thousand.

Sal.
The oddes is all too great. Farwell kind Lords:
Braue Clarence, and my Lord of Gloster,
My Lord of Warwicke, and to all farewell.

Clar.
Farewell kind Lord, fight valiantly to day,
And yet in truth, I do thee wrong,
For thou art made on the rrue ^note sparkes of honour. Enter King.

War.
O would we had but ten thousand men
Now at this instant, that doth not worke in England.

Kin.
Whose that, that wishes so, my Cousen Warwick?
Gods will, I would not loose the honour
One man would share from me,
Not for my Kingdome.
No faith my Cousen, wish not one man more,
Rather proclaime it presently through our campe,
That he that hath no stomacke to this feast,
Let him depart, his pasport shall bee drawne,
And crownes for conuoy put into his purse,
We would not die in that mans company,
That feares his fellowship to die with vs.
This day is called the day of Cryspin,
He that outliues this day, and sees old age,
Shall stand a tiptoe when this day is named,
And rowse him at the name of Cryspin.
He that outliues this day, and comes safe home,
Shall yearely on the vygill feast his friends,
And say, to morrow is S. Cryspines day:
Then shall we in their flowing bowles
Be newly remembred. Harry the King,
Bedford and Exeter, Clarence and Gloster,
Warwick and Yorke.
Familiar in their mouthes as houshold words.
This story shall the good man tell his sonne,
And from this day, vnto the generall doome:
But we in it shall be remembred.
We fewe, we happie fewe, we bond of brothers,

For he to day that sheads his blood by mine,
Shalbe my brother, be he nere so base,
This day shall gentle his condition.
Then shall he strip his sleeues, and shew his skars,
And say, these wounds I had on Crispines day:
And Gentlemen in England now a bed,
Shall thinke themselues accurst,
And hold their manhood cheape,
While any speake ^note that fought with vs
Vpon Saint ^note Crispines day.

Glost.
My gracious Lord,
The French is in the field.

Kin.
Why all things are ready, if our minds be so.

War.
Perish the man whose mind is backward now.

King.
Thou dost not wish more helpe fr&obar; England, cousen?

War.
Gods will my Liege, would you and I alone,
Without more helpe, might fight this battle out.
Why well said. That doth please me better,
Then to wish me one. You know your charge,
God be with you all. Enter the Herald from the French.

Herald.
Once more I come to know of thee king Henry,
What thou wilt giue for raunsome?

Kin.
Who hath sent thee now?

Her.
The Constable of France.

Kin.
I prethy beare my former answer backe:
Bid them atchieue me, and then sell my bones.
Good God, why should they mock good fellows thus?
The man that once did sell the Lions skin,
While the beast liued, was kild with hunting him.
A ^note many of our bodies shall no doubt
Finde graues within your realme of France:
Tho buried in your dunghils, we shalbe famed,
For there the Sun shall greete them,
And draw vp their honors reaking vp to heauen,
Leauing their earthly parts to choke your clyme:
The smel wherof, shall breed a plague in France:
Marke then abundant valour in our English,
That being dead, like to the bullets crasing,
Breakes forth into a second course of mischiefe,
Killing in relaps of mortalitie:

Let me speake proudly,
Ther's not a peece of feather in our campe,
Good argument I hope we shall not flye:
And time hath worne vs into flouendry.
But by the mas, our hearts are in the trim ^note,
And my poore souldiers tel me, yet ere night
Thayle be in fresher robes, or they will plucke
The gay new cloathes ore your French souldiers eares,
And turne them out of seruice. If they do this,
As if it please God they shall,
Then shall our ransome soone ^note be leuied.
Saue thou thy labour Herauld:
Come thou no more for ransom, gentle Herauld.
They shall haue nought I sweare, but these my bones:
Which if they haue, as I will leaue am ^note them,
Will yeeld them litle, tell the Constable.

Her.
I shall deliuer so. Exit Herauld.

Yorke.
My gracious Lord, vpon my knee I craue,
The leading of the vaward.

Kin.
Take it braue Yorke. Come souldiers lets away:
And as thou pleasest God, dispose the day. Exit.

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