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Changes the mode; for what in me was purchas'd,
Falls upon thee in a much faiser fort;

For thou the garland wear'ft fucceffively.

Yet though thou stand'it more fure than I could do,
Thou art not firm enough, fince griefs are green;
And all my frien is, which thou must make thy friends,
Have but their flings and teeth newly taʼen out;
By whofe fell working I was fir advanc'd,
And by whofe power I well might ledge a fear,
To be again difplac'd; which to avoid

I cut them off, and had a purpose now
To lead out many to the holy land;

Left reft and lying still might make them look
Too near into my ftate. Therefore, my Harry,
Ee it thy courfe to bufy giddy minds

With foreign quarrels; that action, hence borne out,
May waste the memory of former days.
More would I, but my lungs are wasted so,
That strength of speech is utterly deny'd me.
How I came to the crown, O God, forgive!
And grant it may with thee in true peace live!
P. HENRY. My gracious Liege,

You won it, wore it, kept it, gave it me;
Then plain and right muit my poffeffion be;
Which I with more than with a common pain,
'Gainft all the world, will rightfully maintain.

SHAKSPEARE.

CHAP.

CHA P. XVIII.

HENRY V. TO HIS SOLDIERS."

WHAT

HAT's he that wishes for more men from England
My coufin 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 wifh not one man more..
By Jove, I am not covetous of gold;

Nor care I who doth feed upon my cost;
It yearns 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 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, would fhare from me,

For the best hopes I have. Don't with one more:
Rather proclaim it (Westmoreland) through my host,.
That he which hath no ftomach to this fight,
Let him depart; his passport 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 feaft 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 feast his neighbours,

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And fay, To-morrow is Saint Crifpian:

Then will he ftrip his fleeve, and show his scars.
Old men forget; yet fhall not all forget,
But they'll remember, with advantages,

The feats they did that day. Then shall our names,
Familiar in their mouth as houfhold-words,
Harry the King, Bedford, and Exeter,
Warwick and Talbot, Salisbury and Glo'fter,
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 fpeaks,
That fought with us upon St. Crifpian's Day.

SHAKSPEARE

СНАР. XIX.

HENRY VI. WARWICK, AND CARDINAL BEAUFORT.

K. HENRY. HOW fares my Lord? Speak, Beaufort, to

thy Sovereign.

CAR. If thou be'ft Death, I'll give thee England's trea

fure,

Enough to purchafe fuch another island,

So

So thou wilt 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 Sovereign 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 show me where he is:
I'll give a thousand pound 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 fome drink, and bid th' 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 bufy 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'st on heaven's bliss,
Hold up thine hand, make fignal 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.
Clofe up his eyes, and draw the curtain close,
And let us all to meditation..

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WOL.

CHAP. XX.

WOLSEY AND CROMWELL.

AREWEL, a long farewel to all my greatnefs! This is the state of man: To-day he puts forth The tender leaves of hope; to-morrow blossoms, And bears his blushing honours thick upon him; The third day comes a froft, 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, These 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 fervice, 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 fmile he would aspire to, That sweet afpect of princes, and his ruin, More pangs and fears than war or women have; 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 fhould decline? Nay, if you weep,
I'm fall'n indeed.

CROM,

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