Enter Chorus.
Now entertain conjecture of a time,
When creeping murmur and the poring dark
Fills the wide vessel of the universe.
From camp to camp, through the foul womb of night,
The hum of either army stilly sounds,
That the fixt centinels almost receive
The secret whispers of each other's watch.
Fire answers fire, and through their paly flames
Each battel sees the other's umber'd face.
Steed threatens steed, in high and boastful neighs
Piercing the night's dull ear; and from the tents,
The armourers accomplishing the knights,
With busie hammers closing rivets up,
Give dreadful note of preparation.
The country cocks do crow, the clocks do toll;
And (the third hour of drousie morning nam'd)
Proud of their numbers and secure in soul,
The confident and over-lusty French
Do the low-rated English play at dice;
And chide the criple-tardy-gated night,
Who like a foul and ugly witch does limp
So tediously. The poor condemned English,
Like sacrifices, by their watchful fires
Sit patiently, and inly ruminate

The morning's danger: and their gesture sad,
Investing lank-lean cheeks and war-worn coats,
Presented them unto the gazing moon
So many horrid ghosts. Who now beholds
The royal captain of this ruin'd band
Walking from watch to watch, from tent to tent,
Let him cry, praise and glory on his head!
For forth he goes and visits all his host,
Bids them good-morrow with a modest smile,
And calls them brothers, friends, and countrymen.
Upon his royal face there is no note
How dread an army hath enrounded him;
Nor doth he dedicate one jot of colour
Unto the weary and all-watched night:
But freshly looks and over-bears attaint,
With chearful semblance and sweet majesty:
That ev'ry wretch pining and pale before,
Beholding him, plucks comfort from his looks.
A largess universal like the sun
His lib'ral eye doth give to ev'ry one,
Thawing cold fear; that mean and gentle all
Behold, (as may unworthiness define)
A little touch of Harry in the night.
And so our scene must to the battel fly:
Where, O for pity! we shall much disgrace,
With four or five most vile and ragged foils
(Right ill dispos'd, in brawl ridiculous)
The name of Agincourt. Yet sit and see,
Minding true things by what their mock'ries be. [Exit.

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