SCENE X.

Enter a Meffenger.

Meff. My Lord high Conftable, the English lye within fifteen hundred paces of your tents.

Con. Who hath measur'd the ground?

Meff. The lord Grandpree.

Con. A valiant and most expert gentleman. Would it were day! Alas poor Harry of England, he longs not for the dawning as we do.

Orl. What a wretched and peevish fellow is this King of England, to mope with his fat-brain'd followers fo far out of his knowledge?

Con. If the English had any apprehenfion, they would run away.

Orl. That they lack; for if their heads had any in tellectual armour, they could never wear such heavy head-pieces.

Ram. That Ifland of England breeds very valiant creatures their mastiffs are of unmatchable courage.

Orl. Foolish curs that run winking into the mouth of a Ruffian Bear, and have their heads crufh'd like rotten apples. You may as well fay, that's a valiant Flea that dares eat his breakfast on the lip of a Lion.

Con. Juft, juft; and the men do fympathize with the maftiffs in robuftious and rough coming on, leaving their wits with their wives; and then give them great meals of beef, and iron and steel, they will eat like wolves, and fight like devils.

Orl. Ay; but these English are fhrewdly out of

beef.

Con. Then fhall we find to-morrow they have only ftomachs to eat, and none to fight. Now is it time to arm; come, fhall we about it?

Orl. 'Tis two a clock; but (let me fee) by ten We fhall have each a hundred Englishmen.

[Exeunt.

ACT

N

ACT IV. SCENEI.

AGINCOURT

Enter CHORUS.

O W entertain-conjecture of a time,
When creeping murmur and the poring

1

dark

Fills the wide veffel of the universe.
From camp to camp, through the foul
womb of night,

The hum of either army flilly founds,
That the fixt centinels almoft receive
The fecret whispers of each other's watch.
Fire answers fire, and through their paly flames
Each battel fees the other's umber'd face.
Steed threatens teed, in high and boastful neighs
Piercing the night's dull ear, and from the tents,
The armourers accomplishing the knights,
With bufie hammers clofing rivets up,.
Give dreadful note of preparation.

The country cocks do crow, the clocks do toll;
And (the third hour of droufje morning nam'd)
Proud of their numbers and fecure in foul,
The confident and over-lufty 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 tedioufly. The poor condemned English,
Like facrifices, by their watchful fires
Sit patiently, and inly ruminates

The morning's danger: and their gefture fad,

Investing

Investing lank lean cheeks and war-worn coats,
Prefented them unto the gazing moon

So many horrid ghofts. 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 femblance and fweet majefty:
That ev'ry wretch pining and pale before,
Beholding him, plucks comfort from his looks.
A largefs universal like the fun

His lib'ral eye doth give to ev'ry one,
Thawing cold fear; that mean and gentle all
Behold, (as may unworthinefs define)
A little touch of Harry in the night.
And fo our scene muft to the battel fly:
Where, O for pity! we shall much difgrace,
With four or five most vile and ragged foils
(Right ill difpos'd, in brawl ridiculous)
The name of Agincourt. Yet fit and fee,
Minding true things by what their mock'ries be. (Exit.

The

K. Henry. Glow'fter, 'tis true that we are in great danger, greater therefore fhould our couragé be. Good morrow brother Bedford: God Almighty! There is fome foul of goodnefs in thing's evil,

Would

Would men obfervingly diftil it out.

For our bad neighbour makes us early Atirrers,
Which is both healthful, and good husbandry.
Befides they are our outward confciences,
And preachers to us all; admonishing
That we should drefs us fairly for our end.
Thus may we gather honey from the weed,
And make a moral of the devil himself.

Enter Erpingham..

Good-morrow, old Sir Thomas Erpingham : A good foft pillow for that good white head Were better than a churlifh turf of France:

Erping. Not fo my Liege, this lodging likes me bet

ter,

Since I may fay, now lye I like a King.

K. Henry. 'Tis good for men to love their prefent pain

Upon example; fo the fpirit is eafed :

And when the mind is quicken'd, out of doubt,
The organs, though defunct and dead before,
Break up their drowfie grave, and newly move.
With cafted flough and fresh celerity.

Lend me thy cloak, Sir Thomas: brothers both,
Commend me to the Princes in our camp:
Do my good-morrow to them, and anon
Defire them all to my pavillion.

Glou. We fhall, my Liege.

Erping. Shall I attend your grace?

K. Henry. No, my good knight,

Go with my brothers to my lords of England:
I and my bofom must debate a while,

And then I would no other company.

Erping. The Lord in heaven bless thee, noble Harry.

[Exeunt. K. Henry. God-a-mercy old heart, thou speak'st chear

fully.

SCENE

SCENE III

Pift. Qui va la?.

K. Henry. A friend.

Enter Piftol.

Pift. Difcufs unto me, art thou officer,
Or art thou base, common and popular?
K. Henry. I am a gentleman of a company.
Pift. Trail'ft thou the puiffant pike?

K. Henry. Ev'n fo: what are you?

Pift. As good a gentleman as the Emperor.
K. Henry. Then you are a better than the King.
Pift. The King's a bawcock, and a heart of gold,
A lad of life, an imp of fame,

Of parents good, of fift moft valiant :

I kifs his dirty fhooe, and from my heart-ftring
I love the lovely bully. What's thy name?

K. Henry. Harry le Roy.

Pift. Le Roy a Cornish name: art thou of Cornish crew?

K. Henry. No, I am a Welshman.

Pif. Know'st thou Fluellen?

K. Henry. Yes.

Pift. Tell him I'll knock his leek about his pate Upon St. David's day.

K. Henry. Do not you wear your dagger in your cap that day, left he knock that about yours.

Pift. Art thou his friend?

K. Henry. And his kinsman too,

Pift. The Figo for thee then.

K. Henry. I thank you: God be with you.

Pift. My name is Piftol call'd.

K. Henry. It forts well with

your fiercenefs.

[Exit.

[Manet King Henry.

Enter