Bedford.
Hung be the heav'ns with black, yield day to night!
Comets, importing change of times and states,
Brandish your crystal tresses in the sky,
And with them scourge the bad revolting stars
That have consented unto Henry's death:
Henry the Fifth, too famous to live long,
England ne'er lost a King of so much worth.

Glou.
England ne'er had a King until his time:
Virtue he had, deserving to command.
His brandish'd sword did blind men with its beams;
His arms spread wider than a Dragon's wings;
His sparkling eyes repleat with awful fire
More dazled and drove back his enemies.
Than mid-day sun fierce bent against their faces.

What should I say? his deeds exceed all speech:
He never lifted up his hand but conquer'd.

Exe.
We mourn in black, why mourn we not in blood?
Henry is dead, and never shall revive:
Upon a wooden coffin we attend;
And death's dishonourable victory
We with our stately presence glorifie,
Like captives bound to a triumphant car.
What? shall we curse the planets of mishap,
That plotted thus our glory's overthrow?
Or shall we think the subtle-witted French
Conj'rers and sorc'rers, that afraid of him
By magick verse have thus contriv'd his end?

Win.
He was a King, blest of the King of Kings.
Unto the French, the dreadful judgment-day
So dreadful will not be as was his sight.
The battels of the lord of hosts he fought;
The church's pray'rs made him so prosperous.

Glou.
The church? where is it? had not church-men pray'd,
His thread of life had not so soon decay'd.
None do you like but an effeminate Prince,
Whom like a school-boy you may over-awe.

Win.
Glo'ster, whate'er we like, thou art Protector.
And lookest to command the Prince and realm;
Thy wife is proud, she holdeth thee in awe,
More than God or religious church-men may.

Glou.
Name not religion, for thou lov'st the flesh,
And ne'er throughout the year to church thou go'st,
Except it be to pray against thy foes.

Bed.
Cease, cease these jars, and rest your minds in peace:
Let's to the altar: heralds, wait on us;
Instead of gold we'll offer up our arms,
Since arms avail not now that Henry's dead.

Posterity await for wretched years,
When at their mothers moist eyes babes shall suck,
Our isle be made a ^{a note}nourish of false tears,
And none but women left to 'wail the dead.
Henry the Fifth! thy ghost I invocate;
Prosper this realm, keep it from civil broils,
Combat with adverse planets in the heavens;
A far more glorious star thy soul will make
Than Julius Cæsar, or bright—† ^note

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