K. Henry.
Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more;
Or close the wall up with the English dead.
In peace, there's nothing so becomes a man
As modest stillness and humility:
But when the blast of war blows in our ears,
Then imitate the action of the Tyger;
Stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood,
Disguise fair nature with hard-favour'd rage;
Then lend the eye a terrible aspect;
Let it pry thro' the portage of the head,
Like the brass cannon: let the brow o'erwhelm it,
As fearfully, as doth a galled rock
O'er-hang and jutty his confounded base,
Swill'd with the wild and wasteful ocean.
Now set the teeth, and stretch the nostril wide;
Hold hard the breath, and bend up every spirit
To his full height. Now on, you noblest English,
Whose blood is fetcht from fathers of war-proof;
Fathers, that, like so many Alexanders,
Have in these parts from morn till even fought,

And sheath'd their swords for lack of argument.
Dishonour not your mothers; now attest,
That those, whom you call'd fathers, did beget you.
Be copy now to men of grosser blood,
And teach them how to war; and you, good yeomen,
Whose limbs were made in England, shew us here
The mettle of your pasture: let us swear
That you are worth your breeding, which I doubt not:
For there is none of you so mean and base,
That hath not noble lustre in your eyes;
I see you stand like Greyhounds in the slips,
Straining upon the start. The game's a-foot:
Follow your spirit; and, upon this charge,
Cry, God for Harry! England! and St. George! [Exeunt King, and Train. [Alarm, and Cannon go off.

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