Gow.

Captain Fluellen.

Flu.

So, in the Name of Jesu Christ, speak fewer: It is the greatest admiration in the universal World, when the true and auncient Prerogatifes and Laws of the Wars is not kep : 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 tiddle taddle, nor pibble babble 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, your hear 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. [Exeunt.

K. Henry.
Tho' it appear a little out of fashion,
There is much Care and Valour in this Welchman. Enter three Soldiers, John Bates, Alexander Court, and Michael Williams.

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.

Williams.

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 John 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 wrack'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 is it 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 Conditions. His Ceremonies laid by, in his Nakedness he appears but a Man; and tho' 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 ransomed, and a many poor Mens Lives saved.

K. Henry.

I dare say, you love him not so ill to wish him here alone; howsoever, you speak this to feel other Mens 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 Battel, 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 their Children rawly left: I am afear'd there are few die well that die in Battel; 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 Mony, be assail'd by Robbers, nnd 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 Murther; 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; 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 punish'd, for before breach of the King's Laws, in now the King's Quarrel; where they feared the Death, they have born 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. Every Subject's Duty is the King's, but every Subject's Soul is his own. Therefore should every Soldier in the Wars, 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 outlive that day to see his Greatness, and to teach others how they should prepare.

Will.

'Tis certain, 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 my self heard the King say, he would not be ransom'd.

Will.

Ay, he said so, to make us fight chearfully; 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; 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 give 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, tho' 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 enow, if you could tell how to reckon.

K. Henry.

Indeed, the French may lay twenty 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.

Save Ceremony, save general Ceremony?
And what art thou, thou Idol Ceremony?
What kind of God art thou? that suffer'st more
Of mortal Griefs than do thy Worshippers.
What are thy Rents? What are thy comings in?
O Ceremony, shew me but thy worth:
What! is thy Soul of Adoration?
Art thou ought 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 Feaver 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 beggars knee,
Command the health of it? No, thou proud Dream,
That play'st so subtilly 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 farsed Title running 'fore the King,
The Throne he sits on; nor the Tide of Pomp,
That beats upon the high shoar of this World:
No, not all these thrice-gorgeous Ceremonies,
Not all these, laid in Bed Majestical,
Can sleep so soundly as the wretched Slave:
Who, with a Body fill'd, and vacant Mind,
Gets him to rest, cramm'd with distressful Bread,
Never sees horrid Night, the Child of Hell:
But like a Lacquey, from the Rise to Set,
Sweats in the Eye of Phœbus; and all Night
Sleeps in Elysium; next day after dawn,
Doth rise and help Hyperion to his Horse,
And follows so the ever-running Year
With profitable Labour to his Grave:
And, but for Ceremony, such a Wretch,
Winding up days with Toil, and Nights with Sleep,

Had the fore-hand and vantage of a King.
The Slave, a Member of the Country's peace,
Enjoys it; but in gross Brain little wots,
What Watch the King keeps to maintain the Peace;
Whose hours the Peasant best advantages. 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 Battels, steel my Soldiers Hearts,
Possess them not with Fear: Take from them now
The sense of reck'ning of the opposed Numbers:
Pluck their Hearts from them. Not to day, O Lord,
O not to day, think not upon the Fault
My Father made, in compassing the Crown.
I Richard's Body have interred new,
And on it have bestowed more contrite Tears
Than from it issued 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 Chauntries,
Where the sad and solemn Priests sing still
For Richard's Soul. More will I do;
Tho' all that I can do is nothing worth,
Since that my Penitence comes after all,
Imploring Pardon. Enter Gloucester.

Glo.
My Liege.

K. Henry.
My Brother Glo'ster's Voice?
I know thy Errand, I will go with thee:
The Day, my Friend, and all things stay for me. [Exeunt. Enter the Dauphin, Orleans, Rambures, and Beaumont.

Orl.
The Sun doth gild our Armour, up, my Lords.

Dau.
Monte Cheval: My Horse, Valet Lacquay: Ha!

Orl.
Oh brave Spirit!

Dau.
Voyer les Cieux & la terre.

Orl.
Rien puis le air & feu.

Dau.
Cien, 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 d' out them with superfluous Courage: Ha!

Ram.
What, will you have them weep our Horses Blood?
How shall we then behold their natural Tears? Enter Messenger.

Mes.
The English are embattell'd, you French Peers.

Con.
To Horse, you gallant Princes, streight to Horse.
Do but behold yond poor and starved Band,
And your fair shew shall suck away their Souls,
Leaving them but the shades 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'er-turn them.
'Tis positive 'gainst all exception, Lords,
That our superfluous Lacqueys and our Peasants,
Who in unnecessary action swarm
About our Squares of Battel, were enow
To purge this Field of such a hilding Foe,
Tho' 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
The Tucket Sonuance, and the Note to mount:
For our approach shall so much dare the Field,
That England shall couch down in fear, and yield. Enter Grandpree.

Gran.
Why do you stay so long, my Lords of France?
Yond 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 Bever peeps,

The Horsemen sit like fixed Candlesticks,
With Torch-staves in their Hand; and their poor Jades
Lob down their Heads, drooping the Hide and Hips:
The Gum down roping from their pale-dead Eyes,
And in their pale dull Mouths the Jymold Bitt
Lyes foul with chaw'd Grass, still and motionless;
And their Executors, the knavish Crows,
Fly o'er them, all impatient for their hour.
Description cannot suit it self in words,
To demonstrate the Life of such a Battel,
In life so liveless as it shews it self.

Con.
They have said their Prayers,
And they stay for Death.

Dol.
Shall we go send them Dinners, and fresh Sutes,
And give their fasting Horses Provender,
And after fight with them?

Con.
I stay but for my Guard: On, to the Field;
I will the Banner from a Trumpet take,
And use it for my haste. Come, come away,
The Sun is high, and we out-wear the day. [Exeunt. Enter Gloucester, Bedford, Exeter, Erpingham with all the Host, Salisbury and Westmorland.

Glo.
Where is the King?

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

West.
Of fighting Men they have full threescore thousand.

Exe.
There's five to one, besides they are all 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 Glo'ster, and my good Lord Exeter,
And my kind Kinsman, Warriors all adieu.

Bed.
Farewel, good Salisbury, and good luck go with thee:
And yet I do thee wrong, to mind thee of it,
For thou art fam'd of the firm truth of Valour.

Exe.
Farewel, kind Lord: Fight valiantly to day. [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 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 (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 named,
And rouze him at the Name of Crispian:
He that shall see this day, and live 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 all shall not be forgot;
But he'll remember, with advantages,
What feats he did that day. Then shall our Names,
Familiar in his Mouth as houshold Words,
Harry the King, Bedford and Exeter,
Warwick and Talbot, Salisbury and Glo'ster,
Be in their flowing Cups freshly remembred.
This Story shall the good Man teach his Son:
And Crispine 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, whiles any speaks,
That fought with us upon St. Crispian's day. Enter Salisbury.

Sal.
My Sovereign 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 be 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, Coz?

West.
God will, my Liege, would you and I alone,
Without more help, could fight this Royal Battel.

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 Overthrow:
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 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 Heaven,
Leaving their earthly Parts to choak your Clime,
The smell whereof shall breed a Plague in France.
Mark then abounding Valour in our English:
That being dead, like to the Bullets grasing,
Break out into a second course of Mischief,
Killing in relapse of Mortality.
Let me speak proudly; tell the Constable,
We are but Warriors for the working day;
Our Gayness and our Guilt are all be-smirch'd
With rainy marching in the painful Field.
There's not a piece of Feather in our Host;
Good Argument, I hope, we will not flye:
And time hath worn us into slovenry.
But, by the Mass, our Hearts are in the trim:
And my poor Soldiers tell me, yet e'er 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 levied.
Herald, save thou 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.

Mon.
I shall, King Harry: And so fare thee well,
Thou never shalt hear Herald any more. [Exit.

K. Henry.
I fear a thou wilt once more come again for a 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. Alarm. Excursions. Enter Pistol, French Soldier, and Boy.

Pist.

Yield, Cur.

Fr. Sol.

Je pense que vous estes le Gentil-home de bone qualité.

Pist.
Quality calmy culture me. Art thou a Gentleman?
What is thy Name? discuss.

Fr. Sol.
O Seigneur Dieu!

Pist.

O Signieur Dewe should be a Gentleman: Perpend my words, O Signieur Dewe, and mark: O Signieur Dewe, thou diest on point of Fox, except, O Signeur, thou do give to me egregious Ransom.

Fr. Sol.

O prennez misericorde ayez pitie de moy.

Pist.

Moy shall not serve, I will have forty Moys; for I will fetch thy rym out at thy Throat, in drops of Crimson Blood.

Fr. Sol.

Est-il impossibile d'eschapper la force de ton bras.

Pist.

Brass, Cur? thou damned and luxurious Mountain Goat, offer'st me Brass?

Fr. Sol.

O pardonnez moy.

Pist.

Say'st thou me so? is that a Ton of Moys? Come hither, Boy, ask me this Slave in French, what is his Name.

Boy.

Escoute, comment estes vous appellé?

Fr. Sol.

Monsieur le Fer.

Boy.

He says his Name is Mr. Fer.

Pist.

Mr. Fer! I'll fer him, and ferk him, and ferret him: Discuss the same in French unto him.

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 disposée tout a cette heure de couper vostre gorge.

Pist.

Owy, cuppele gorge parmafoy 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 Gentilhome de bonne maison, garde 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: neant moins pour les escus que vous l'ay promettez, il est content de vous donner la liberté de franchise.

Fr. Sol.

Sur mes genoux je voux donne milles remerciemens, & je me estime heureux que je suis tombé entre les mains d'un Chevalier, je pense, le plus brave, valiant, & tres estimée Signeur d' Angleterre.

Pist.

Expound unto me, Boy.

Boy.

He gives you upon his knees a thousand thanks, and esteems himself happy, that he hath fal'n into the hands of one, as he thinks, the most brave, valorous, and thrice-worthy Signeur of England.

Pist.

As I suck Blood, I will some mercy shew. Follow me.

Boy.

Suivez le grand Capitain. I did never know so woful a Voice issue from so empty a Heart; but the Song is true, the empty Vessel makes the greatest sound. Bardolf and Nim had ten times more Valour than this roaring Devil i'th' old Play, that every one may pair his Nails with a wooden Dagger, and they are both Hang'd, and so would this be, if he durst steal any thing adventurously. I must stay with the Lackies, 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.