K. Henry.
Well have we done, thrice valiant countrymen;
But all's not done; the French yet keep the field.

Exe.
The Duke of York commends him to your Majesty.

K. Henry.
Lives he, good uncle? thrice within this hour
I saw him down; thrice up again, and fighting:
From helmet to the spur all bleeding o'er.

Exe.
In which array, brave soldier, doth he lie,
Larding the plain; and by his bloody side
(Yoak-fellow to his honour-owing wounds)
The noble Earl of Suffolk also lies.
Suffolk first dy'd, and York, all haggled over,
Comes to him where in gore he lay insteep'd,
And takes him by the beard; kisses the gashes,
That bloodily did yawn upon his face,
And cries aloud, tarry, my cousin Suffolk,
My soul shall thine keep company to heav'n:
Tarry, sweet soul, for mine, then fly a-breast:
As in this glorious and well-foughten field
We kept together in our chivalry.
Upon these words I came, and cheer'd him up;
He smil'd me in the face, gave me his hand,
And, with a feeble gripe, says, dear my lord,
Commend my service to my Sovereign;
So did he turn, and over Suffolk's neck
He threw his wounded arm, and kist his lips;
And so espous'd to death, with blood he seal'd
A testament of noble-ending love.
The pretty and sweet manner of it forc'd
Those waters from me, which I would have stop'd;
But I had not so much of man in me,

But all my mother came into mine eyes,
And gave me up to tears.

K. Henry.
I blame you not;
^{8 note}
For, hearing this, I must perforce compound
With mistful eyes, or they will issue too. [Alarum.
But, hark, what new alarum is this same?
The French have re-inforc'd their scatter'd men:
Then every soldier kill his prisoners.
Give the word through. [Exeunt. 9 ^noteSCENE XIII.

Alarms continued; after which, Enter Fluellen and Gower.

Flu.

Kill the poyes and the luggage! 'tis expresly against the law of arms; 'tis as arrant a piece of Knavery, mark you now, as can be desir'd in your conscience now, is it not?

Gow.

'Tis certain, there's not a boy left alive; and the cowardly rascals, that ran away from the battle, ha' done this slaughter: besides, they have burn'd or carried away all that was in the King's tent; wherefore the King most worthily has caus'd ev'ry soldier to cut his prisoner's throat. O 'tis a gallant King!

Flu.

I, he was porn at Monmouth, captain Gower; what call you the town's name, where Alexander the pig, was born?

Gow.

Alexander the great.

Flu.

Why, I pray you, is not pig, great? the pig, or the great, or the mighty, or the huge, or the magnanimous, are all one reckonings, save the phrase is a little variations.

Gow.

I think, Alexander the great was born in Macedon; his father was called Philip of Macedon, as I take it.

Flu.

I think, it is in Macedon where Alexander is porn: I tell you, captain, if you look in the maps of the orld: I warrant, that you sall find, in the comparisons between Macedon and Monmouth, that the situations, look you, is both alike. There is a river in Macedon, there is also moreover a river at Monmouth: it is call'd Wye at Monmouth, but it is out of my prains, what is the name of the other river; but it is all one, 'tis as like as my fingers to my fingers, and there is Salmons in both. If you mark Alexander's life well, Harry of Monmouth's life is come after it indifferent well; for there is figures in all things. Alexander, God knows and you know, in his rages, and his furies, and his wraths, and his cholers, and his moods, and his displeasures, and his indignations; and also being a little intoxicates in his prains, did in his ales and his angers, look you, kill his best friend Clytus.

Gow.

Our King is not like him in that, he never kill'd any of his friends.

Flu.

It is not well done, mark you now, to take the tales out of my mouth, ere it is made and finish'd. I speak but in figures, and comparisons of it; as Alexander kill'd his friend Clytus, being in his ales and his cups; so also Harry Monmouth, being in his right wits and his good judgments, turn'd away the fat Knight with the great belly-doublet; he was full of jests and gypes, and knaveries, and mocks: I have forgot his name.

Gow.

Sir John Falstaff.

Flu.

That is he: I tell you, there is good men porn at Monmouth.

Gow.

Here comes his Majesty.