Edward Capell [1767], Mr William Shakespeare his comedies, histories, and tragedies, set out by himself in quarto, or by the Players his Fellows in folio, and now faithfully republish'd from those Editions in ten Volumes octavo; with an introduction: Whereunto will be added, in some other Volumes, notes, critical and explanatory, and a Body of Various Readings entire (Printed by Dryden Leach, for J. and R. Tonson [etc.], London) [word count] [S10601].
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SCENE III.
The same. Before a Gate. Governor, and Others, upon the walls; below, the English Forces.
-- 44 --
Flourish. Enter King Henry, and Train.
Kin.
How yet resolves the governor of the town?
This is the latest parle we will admit note:
Therefore, to our best mercy give yourselves;
Or, like to men proud of destruction,
Defy us to our worst: for, as I am a soldier,
(A name, that, in my thoughts, becomes me best)
If I begin the battery once again,
I will not leave the half-atchieved Harfleur,
'Till in her ashes she lie buried.
The gates of mercy shall be all shut up;
And the flesh'd soldier,—rough, and hard of heart,—
In liberty of bloody hand, shall range
With conscience wide as hell; mowing like grass
Your fresh fair virgins, and your flow'ring infants.
What is it then to me, if impious war,—
Array'd in flames note, like to the prince of fiends,—
Do, with his smirch'd complexion, all fell feats
Enlink'd to waste and desolation?
What is't to me, when you yourselves are cause,
If your pure maidens fall into the hand
Of hot and forcing violation?
What rein can hold licentious wickedness,
When down the hill he holds his fierce career?
We may as bootless spend our vain command
Upon the enraged soldiers in their spoil,
As send precépts to the leviathan
To come ashore. Therefore, you men of Harfleur,
Take pity of your town, and of your people,
Whiles yet my soldiers are in my command;
Whiles yet the cool and temperate wind of grace
O'er-blows the filthy and contagious clouds
-- 45 --
Of heady note murther, spoil, and villany.
If not, Why, in a moment, look to see
The blind and bloody soldier with foul hand
Defile note the locks of your shrill-shrieking daughters;
Your fathers taken by the silver beards,
And their most reverend heads dash'd to the walls;
Your naked infants spitted upon pikes;
Whiles the mad mothers with their howls confus'd
Do break the clouds, as did the wives of Jewry
At Herod's bloody-hunting slaughtermen.
What say you? will you yield, and this avoid?
Or, guilty in defence, be thus destroy'd?
Gov.
Our expectation hath this day an end:
The dauphin, whom of succour note we entreated,
Returns us—that his powers are not yet note ready
To raise so great a siege. Therefore, dread king note,
We yield our town, and lives, to thy soft mercy:
Enter our gates; dispose of us, and ours;
For we no longer are defensible note.
Kin.
Open your gates.—Come, uncle Exeter,
Go you and enter Harfleur; there remain,
And fortify it strongly 'gainst the French:
Use mercy to them all for us, good uncle.
The winter coming on, and sickness growing
Upon our soldiers, we will retire to Calais.
To-night14Q0746 in Harfleur will we be your guest;
To-morrow for the march are we addrest.
[Flourish; and Exeunt English to the Town.
Edward Capell [1767], Mr William Shakespeare his comedies, histories, and tragedies, set out by himself in quarto, or by the Players his Fellows in folio, and now faithfully republish'd from those Editions in ten Volumes octavo; with an introduction: Whereunto will be added, in some other Volumes, notes, critical and explanatory, and a Body of Various Readings entire (Printed by Dryden Leach, for J. and R. Tonson [etc.], London) [word count] [S10601].
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