I am a King that find thee; and I know
'Tis not the balm, the scepter and the ball,
The fword, the mace, the crown imperial,
The enter-tiflued robe of gold and pearl,
The farfed title running 'fore the King,
The throne he fits on, nor the tide of pomp
That beats upon the high fhoar of this world:
No, not all these thrice-gorgeous ceremonies,
Not all thefe laid in bed majeftical,
Can fleep fo foundly as the wretched flave,
Who with a body fill'd, and vacant mind,
Gets him to reft, cramm'd with distressful bread,
Never fees horrid night, the child of hell,
But like a lacquey, from the rife to set,
Sweats in the eye of Phoebus; and all night
Sleeps in Elyfium; next day after dawn
Doth rife, and help Hyperion to his horfe;
And follows fo the ever-running year
With profitable labour to his grave:
And (but for ceremony) fuch a wretch,
Winding up days with toil, and nights with fleep,
Math the fore-hand and vantage of a King:
The flave, a member of the country's peace,
Enjoys it, but in grofs brain little wots
What watch the King keeps to maintain the peace,
Whofe hours the peasant beft advantages.
Erp. My Lord, your Nobles jealous of your absence, Seek through your camp to find you.
K. Henry. Good old Knight,
Collect them all together at my tent:
I'll be before thee.
Erp. I fhall do't, my Lord.
K. Henry. O God of battels! fteel my foldiers hearts, Poffefs them not with fear: take from them now The fenfe of reck'ning of th' oppofed numbers Which ftand before them! Not to-day, O Lord, O not to-day, think not upon the fault My father made in compaffing the crown! I Richard's body have interred new,
And on it have beftow'd more contrite tears,
Than from it iffu'd forced drops of blood.
Five hundred poor I have in yearly pay,
Who twice a-day their wither'd hands hold up
Tow'rd heaven to pardon blood: and I have built
Two chauntries, where the fad and folemn priests
Sing ftill for Richard's foul. More will I do ;
Tho' all that I can do is nothing worth,
Since that my penitence comes after all,
Imploring pardon.
K. Henry, My brother Glafter's voice? I know thy errand, I will go with thee:
The day, my friends, and all things ftay for me. [Exeunt. SCENE VI. The French Camp.
Enter the Dauphin, Orleans, Rambures and Beaumont. Orl. The fun doth gild our armour, up, my Lords. * Con. To horfe, you gallant Princes, ftrait to horfs ! Do but behold yon poor and starved band,
And your fair fhew fhall fuck away their fouls,
Leaving them but the fhales and hufks of men,
There is not work enough for all our hands,
Scarce blood enough in all their fickly veins
To give each naked coutelas a stain,
That our French gallants fhall to-day draw out,
up, my Lords.
Dau. Monte Cheval: my horfe, valet, lacquay: ha!
Orl. O brave fpirit!
Dan. Via! les eaux & la terré.
Orl. Hien puis le air & feu.
Dan, Ciel, Coufin Orleans.
Now, my Lord Conftable!
Con. Hark how our steeds for prefent fervice neigh Dan. Mount them and make incifion in their hides, That their hot blood may fpin in English eyes,
And daunt then, with fuperfluous courage: ha!
Ram. What, will you have them weep our ho fes blood? How shall we then behold their natural tears?
Me The English are embattell'd, you French Peers.
Com. To horfe
And fheath for lack of fport. Let's but blow on them,
The vapour of our valour will o'erturn them.
"Tis pofitive 'gainft all exception, Lords,
That our fuperfluous lacqueys and our peasants,
Who in unneceffary action fwarm
About our squares of battel, were enow
To purge this field of fuch a hilding foe;
Tho' we upon this mountain's bafis by
Took ftand for idle speculation:
But that our honours must not.
A very little, little, let us do;
And all is done. Then let the trumpets found
The tucket-fonuance, and the note to mount:
For our approach fhall fo much dare the field,
That England fhall couch down in fear, and yield.
Enter Grandpree.
Grand. Why do you stay so long, my Lords of France ?
Yon Inland-carrions, defp'rate of their bones,
-favour'dly become the morning field:
Their ragged curtains poorly are let loose,
And our air fhakes them paffing fcornfully.
Big Mars feems bankrupt in their beggar'd hoft,
And faintly through a rufty bever peeps,
The horsemen fit like fixed candlesticks,
With torch-ftaves in their hand; and their poor jades
Lob down their heads, drooping the hide and hips:
The gum down-roping from their pale-dead eyes;
And in their pale dull mouths the jymold bitt
Lyes foul with chaw'd grass, still and motionless;
And their executors the knavish crows
Fly o'er them, all impatient for their hour.
Defcription cannot fuit it self in words,
The life of fuch a battle to demonstrate,
In life fo livelefs as it fhews it felf.
Con. They've faid their prayers, and they stay for death.
Dau. Shall we go fend them dinners and fresh futes,..
And give their fafting horfes provender,
And after fight with them?
Con, I ftay but for my guard: on to the field ;
I will the banner from a trumpet take,
And ufe it for my hafte. Come, come away,
The fun is high, and we out-wear the day.
SCENE VII. The English Camp. Enter Gloucefter, Bedford, Exeter, Erpingham with all the Hoft, Salisbury and Weftmorland.
Bod. The King himself is rode to view their battel.
Weft. Of fighting men they have full threescore thousand.
Exe. There's five to one, befides they are all fresh.
Sal. God's arm ftrike with us! 'tis a fearful odds.
God be wi' you, Princes all; I'll to my charge.
If we no more meet 'till we meet in heav'n,
Then joyfully, my noble Lord of Bedford,
My dear Lord Glofter, and my good Lord Exeter,
And my kind kinfman, warriors all, adieu!
Bed. Farewel good Salisbury, and good luck go with thee!
Exe. Farewel, kind Lord: fight valiantly to-day:
And yet I do thee wrong to mind thee of it,
For thou art fram'd of the firm truth of valour. [Exit Sal. Bed. He is as full of valour as of kindness,
Enter King Henry.
Weft. O that we now had here
But one ten thousand of those men in England
That do no work to-day!
K. Henry. What's he that wishes fo?
My cousin Weftmorland? 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 wifh not one man more.
By Jove I am not covetous of gold,
Nor care I who doth feed upon my coft;
It yerns me not if men my garments wear;
Such outward things dwell not in my defires:
But if it be a fin to covet honour,
I am the moft offending foul alive.
No, 'faith, my Lord, with not a man from England;
God's peace, I would not lose fo great an honour
As one man more, methinks, would fhare from me,
For the beft hopes I have. Don't with one more:
Rather proclaim it (Weftmorland) through my hoft,
That he which hath no ftomach to this fight,
Let him depart, his pafsport fhall 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 feaft of Crifpian:
He that outlives this day and comes fafe home,
Will ftand a tip-toe when this day is nam'd,
And rouze him at the name of Crifpian:
He that fhall live this day, and fee old age,
Will yearly on the vigil feaft his reighbours,
And fay to-morrow is Saint Crifpian:
Then will he ftrip his fleeve and fhew his fcars:
Old men forget; yet fhall not all forget,
But they'll remember with advantages
What feats they did that day. Then shall our names,
Familiar in their mouth as houshold words,
Harry the King, Bedford, and Exeter,
Warrick and Talbot, Salisbury and Glofter,
Be in their flowing cups freshly remember'd.
This story shall the good man teach his fon:
And Crifpine Crifpian fhall ne'er go by
From this day to the ending of the world,
But we in it fhall be remembered;
We few, we happy few, we band of brothers:
For he to-day that fheds his blood with me
Shall be my brother; be he ne'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.
Sal. My fov'reign Lord, bestow your felf with fpeed: The French are bravely in their battels fet,
And will with all expedience charge on us.
K. Henry. All things are ready, if our minds be fo. Weft. Perish the man whofe mind is backward now !
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