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CHAP. XVIII.

HENRY V. TO HIS SOLDIERS.

WHAT's he that wishes for more men from England ?

My cousin Weftmoreland? No, my fair coufin,
If we are mark'd to die, we are enow

To do our country lofs; and if to live,
The fewer men the greater fhare of honour.
God's will! I pray thee with not one man more.
By Jove, I am not covetous of gold;

Nor care I who doth feed upon my coft;

It

It yearns me not if men my garments wear;
Such outward things dwell not in my desires:
But if it be a fin to covet honour,

I am the most offending foul alive.

No, 'faith, my lord, with not a man from England:
God's peace! I would not lofe fo great an honour,
As one man more, methinks, would share from me,
For the best hopes I have. Don't wish one more:
Rather proclaim it (Weftmoreland) through my host,
That he which hath no ftomach to this fight,
Let him depart; his paffport shall be made,
And crowns for convoy put into his purse:
We would not die in that man's company,
That fears his fellowship to die with us.
This day is call'd the feast of Crifpian
He that outlives this day, and comes fafe home,
Will ftand a tip toe when this day is nam'd,
And roufe him at the name of Crispian :
He that outlives this day, and fees old age,
Will yearly on the vigil feaft his neighbours,
S

And

And fay, To-morrow is Saint Crispian :

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'Then will he strip his fleeve, and fhew his fcars. Old men forget; yet shall not all forget,

But they'll remember, with advantages,

The feats they did that day. Then shall our names,
Familiar in their mouth as household words,
Harry the king, Bedford, and Exeter,
Warwick and Talbot, Salisbury and Glo'ster,
Be in their flowing cups freshly remember'd.
This ftory fhall the good man teach his fon :
And Crifpin Crifpian fhall ne'er go by,
From this day to the ending of the world,
But we in it shall be remembered;

We few, we happy few, we band of brothers !
For he to-day that sheds his blood with me,
Shall be my brother; be he e'er fo vile,
This day fhall gentle his condition,

And gentlemen in England, now a-bed,

Shall think themselves accurs'd they were not here;
And hold their manhoods cheap, while any speaks,
That fought with us upon St. Crifpian's day.

SHAKSPEARE.

CHAP. XIX.

HENRY VI. WARWICK, AND CARDINAL
BEAUFORT.

K. HEN. How fares my lord? Speak, Beaufort, to

thy sovereign.

CAR. Ifthou be't Death, I'll give thee England's treasure,

Enough

Enough to purchase fuch another ifland,

So wilt thou let me live and feel no pain.

K. HENRY. Ah, what a fign it is of evil life,
Where Death's approach is seen so terrible?
WAR. Beaufort, it is thy fovereign speaks to thee.
CAR. Bring me unto my trial when you will.
Dy'd he not in his bed? Where should he die?
Can I make men live whether they will or no?
Oh, torture me no more, I will confefs-
Alive again? Then fhew me where he is :
I'll give a thousand pounds to look upon him--
He hath no eyes, the duft hath blinded them
Comb down his hair: look! look! it ftands upright,
Like lime-twigs fet to catch my winged foul.
Give me some drink, and bid the apothecary
Bring the strong poison that I bought of him.

:

K. HENRY. O thou eternal Mover of the heav'ns,
Look with a gentle eye upon this wretch !
Oh, beat away the busy meddling fiend,
That lays ftrong fiege unto this wretch's foul,
And from his bofom purge this black despair.
-Peace to his foul, if God's good pleasure be !
Lord Cardinal, if thou think'ft on Heaven's blifs,
Hold up thy hand, make signal of thy hope.
He dies, and makes no fign! O God, forgive him.

WAR. So bad a death argues a monstrous life.

K. HENRY. Forbear to judge, for we are finners all,
Close up his eyes, and draw the curtain close,
And let us all to meditation.

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CHAP. XX.

WOLSEY AND CROMWELL.

WOL.FAREWEL, a long farewel to all my greatnefs!

This is the state of man: To-day he forth

puts

The tender leaves of hope: to-morrow blossoms,
upon him;
And bears his blushing honours thick
The third day comes a frost, a killing froft,
And when he thinks, good eafy man, full furely
His greatness is a ripening, nips his shoot;
And then he falls as I do. I have ventur'd,
Like little wanton boys that fwim on bladders,
Thefe many fummers in a fea of glory;
But far beyond my depth: my high blown pride
At length broke under me; and now has left me,
Weary, and old with service, to the mercy
Of a rude ftream, that must for ever hide me.
Vain pomp and glory of the world, I hate ye!
I feel my heart new open'd. Oh, how wretched
Is that poor man that hangs on princes" favours!
There is, betwixt that smile he would aspire to,
That sweet aspect of princes, and his ruin,
and fears than wars or women have;

More

pangs

And when he falls he falls like Lucifer,

Never to hope again!

Why, how now, Cromwell?

CROM. I have no power to speak, Sir.

WOL. What! amaz'd

At my misfortunes? Can thy fpirit wonder

A great man should decline? Nay, if you weep,
I'm fall'n indeed.

CROM.

CROM. How does your grace?

WOL. Why, well;

Never fo truly happy, my good Cromwell.

I know myself now, and I feel within me
A peace above all earthly dignities;

A ftill and quiet confcience. The king has cur'd me,
I humbly thank his grace; and, from these shoulders,
Thefe ruin'd pillars, out of pity taken

A load would fink a navy-too much honour.-
O, 'tis a burthen, Cromwell is a burthen,

Too heavy for a man that hopes for heav'n!

CROM. I'm glad your grace has made that right use of it: WOL. I hope I have: I'm able now, methinks,

Out of a fortitude of foul I feel,"

T'indure more miferies, and greater far,

Than my weak hearted enemies dare offer.
What news abroad?

CROM. The heaviest and the worst,

Is your displeasure with the king.

WOL. God bless him.

CROM. The next is, that Sir Thomas More is chofen Lord Chancellor in your place.

WOL. That's fomewhat fudden

But he's a learned man. May he continue
Long in his highness' favour, and do justice
For truth's fake and his conscience; that his bones,
When he has run his courfe, and fleeps in bleffings,
May have a tomb of orphans' tears wept on him!
What more?

CROM. That Cranmer is return'd with welcome;
Install'd Lord Archbishop of Canterbury.

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