No more can feel but his own wringing.
What infinite heart-eafe muft Kings neglect,
That private men enjoy? and what have Kings
That privates have not too, fave ceremony?
And what art thou, thou idol ceremony?
What kind of God art thou that fuffer'ft more
Of mortal griefs than do thy worshippers.
What are thy rents? what are thy comings-in
O ceremony, fhew me but thy worth:
What is thy foul of adoration?

Art thou ought elfe but place, degree, and form,
Creating awe and fear in other men?

• Wherein thou art lefs happy, being fear'd,
Than they in fearing.

What drink'ft thou oft, instead of homage fweet,
But poifon'd flatt'ry? O be fick, great greatness,
And bid thy ceremony give thee cure.

Think'st thou the fiery feaver will go out

With titles blown from adulation?

• Will it give place to flexure and low bending? Can't thou, when thou command'ft the beggar's

⚫ knee,

Command the health of it? no, thou proud dream,
Thou play'ft fo fubtly with a King's repofe,
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-tiffued 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 majestical,

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 Phabus; and all night

Sleeps

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,
Hath 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 best advantages.

SCENE VI.

Enter Erpingham.

Erp. My lord, your nobles jealous of your abfence, 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.

[Exit.

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 stand before them. Not to-day, O Lord, O not to day, think not upon the fault My father made in compalling 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

Since that my penitence comes after all,
Imploring pardon.

Glou. My Liege.

Enter Gloucefter.

K. Henry. My brother Glo'fter's voice ?
I know thy errand, I will go with thee:
The day, my friend, and all things ftay for me.

[Exeunt.

Enter the Dauphin, Orleans, Rambures and

Beaumont.

lords.

Orl. The fun doth gild our armour, up my *

Con

-up my

lords.

Dau. Monte Cheval my horfe, valet lacquay: ha!
Orl. O brave fpirit!

Dau. Voier les cieux & la terre.

Orl. Rien puis le air & feu.

Dau. Cien, Coufin Orleans.

Enter Constable.

Now my lord Constable!

Con. Hark how our Steeds for prefent fervice neigh. Dau. Mount them and make incifion in their hides, That their hot blood may spin in English eyes, And daunt them with fuperfluous courage: ha! Ram. What, will you have them weep our Horses blood?

How fhall we then behold their natural tears?

Enter Meffenger.

Meff. The English are embattell'd, you French Peers,
Con. To horse.

Con. To horfe you gallant Princes, ftrait to horse.
Do but behold yon poor and starved band,
And your fair fhew thall fuck away their fouls,
Leaving them but the fhales and husks of men.
There is not work enough for all our hands,
Scarce blood enough in all their fickly veins
To give each naked cuttle-ax a stain,

That our French gallants fhall to-day draw out,
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

What's to fay

About our fquares 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 fpeculation:
But that our honours muft 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 shall so much dare the field,
That England shall couch down in fear, and yield.

Enter Grandpree.

Grand. Why do you ftay fo long, my lords of France?
Yon Island carrions, defp'rate of their bones,
In-favour'dly become the morning field :
Their ragged curtains poorly are let loofe,
And our air fhakes them paffing fcornfully.
Big Mars feems bankrupt in their beggar'd hoft,
And faintly through a ruity bever peeps.
The horsemen fit like fixed candlesticks,

With torch-staves 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

TS

Lyes

Jymold, or rather gimmald, which fignifies a ring of two rounds. Gemellus, S.

Lyes foul with chaw'd grafs, ftill and motionlefs;
And their executors the knavish Crows
Fly o'er them all impatient for their hour.
Defcription cannot fuit it felf in words,
To demonstrate the life of fuch a battle,
In life fo liveless as it fhews it self.

Con. They've faid their prayers, and they ftay 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.

[Exeunts

Enter Gloucefter, Bedford, Exeter, Erpingham with all the Hoft, Salisbury and Weftmorland.

HERE is the King

Glou. W Bed. The King himself is rode to view

their battle.

Weft. Of fighting men they have full threefcore

thousand.

Exe. There's five to one, besides 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 Glo'fter, and my good lord Exeter,
And my kind kinfman, warriors all, adieu!

Red. Farewel, good Salisbury, and good luck go

And

with thee:

yet I do thee wrong to mind thee of it, For thou art e made of the firm truth of valour.

ex

* fam'd...

Exe