That you are worth your breeding: which I doubt not.
For there is none of you so mean and base,
That hath not noble lustre in your eyes.
I see you stand like greyhounds in the slips,
Straining upon the start. The game's a-foot;
Follow your spirit: and upon this charge,

Cry-God for Harry! England! and St. George!-Sc. 1. Bardolph. On, on, on, on, on! to the breach! to the breach! Nym. Pray thee, corporal, stay; the knocks are too hot; and for mine own part, I have not a case of lives: the humour of it is too hot, that is the very plain song of it.-Sc. 2.

Boy. Would I were in an alehouse in London! I would give all my fame for a pot of ale and safety.

Pistol. And I.

Fluellen. Up to the preaches, you rascals! will you not up to the preaches? (Driving them forward.)—Id.

Fluellen. Fortune is painted plind, with a muffler before her eyes, to signify to you, that fortune is plind: And she is painted also with a wheel, to signify to you, which is the moral of it, that she is turning and inconstant, and variations, and mutabilities; and her foot, look you, is fixed upon a spherical stone, which rolls, and rolls, and rolls.-Sc. 6.

Gower. Why, 'tis a gull, a fool, a rogue; that now and then goes to the wars, to grace himself, at his return into London, under the form of a soldier. And such fellows are perfect in great commanders' names: and they will learn you by rote, where services were done :-at such and such a sconce, at such a breach, at such a convoy; who came off bravely, who was shot, who disgraced, what terms the enemy stood on; and this they con perfectly in the phrase of war, which they trick up with new-turn'd oaths: And what a beard of the general's cut, and a horrid suit of the camp, will do among foaming bottles and ale-wash'd wits, is wonderful to be thought on! but you must learn to know such slanders of the age, or else you may be marvellous mistook.—Id.

Fluellen. The perdition of th' athversary hath been very great, very reasonable great: marry, for my part, I think the duke hath lost never a man, but one that is like to be executed for robbing a church, one Bardolph, if your majesty know the man his face is all bubukles, and whelks, and knobs, and flames of fire; and his lips plows at his nose, and it is like a coal of fire, sometimes plue, and sometimes red; but his nose is executed, and his fire's out. Id.

King Henry. What is thy name? I know thy quality.

Montjoy. Montjoy.

King Henry. Thou dost thy office fairly. Turn thee back, And tell thy king,-I do not seek him now; But could be willing to march on to Calais Without impeachment: for, to say the sooth, (Though 'tis no wisdom to confess so much Unto an enemy of craft and vantage,) My people are with sickness much enfeebled; My numbers lessen'd; and those few I have, Almost no better than so many French; Who, when they were in health, I tell thee, herald, I thought, upon one pair of English legs Did march three Frenchmen.-Id.

Chorus. Now entertain conjecture of a time,
When creeping murmur, and the poring dark,
Fills the wide vessel of the universe.

From camp to camp, through the foul womb of night,
The hum of either army stilly sounds,

That the fix'd sentinels almost receive

The secret whispers of each other's watch:
Fire answers fire; and through their paly flames
Each battle sees the other's umber'd face:

Steed threatens steed, in high and boastful neighs
Piercing the night's duli ear; and from the tents,
The armourers, accomplishing the knights,
With busy hammers closing rivets up,
Give dreadful note of preparation.

The country cocks do crow, the clocks do toll,
And the third hour of drowsy morning name.
Proud of their numbers, and secure in soul,
The confident and over-lusty French
Do the low-rated English play at dice;
And chide the cripple tardy-gaited night,
Who, like a foul and ugly witch, doth limp

So tediously away. The poor condemned English,
Like sacritices, by their watchful fires

Sit patiently and inly ruminate

The morning's danger; and their gestures sad
Investing lank-lean cheeks, and war-worn coats,
Presenteth them unto the gazing moon

So many horrid ghosts. O! now, who will behold
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-watchful night:
But freshly looks, and overbears attaint,
With cheerful semblance, and sweet majesty;
That every wretch, pining and pale before,
Beholding him, plucks comfort from his looks:
A largess universal, like the sun,

His liberal eye doth give to every one,
Thawing cold fear.-Act 4.

Gower. Why the enemy is loud; you heard him all night. Fluellen. If the enemy is an ass, and a fool, and a prating coxcomb, is it meet, think you, that we should also, look you, be an ass, and a fool, and a prating coxcomb: in your own conscience now ?-Sc. 1.

King Henry. What infinite heart's ease must kings neglect, That private men enjoy?

And what have kings that privates have not too,
Save ceremony, save general ceremony?

What kind of God art thou, that suffers't more
Of mortal griefs, than do thy worshippers?
What are thy rents? what are thy comings-in?
O! ceremony, show me but thy worth!
What is thy soul of adoration?

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

Wherein thou art less happy, being fear'd,

Than they in fearing.

What drink'st thou oft, instead of homage sweet,
But poison'd flattery? O! be sick, great greatness,
And bid thy ceremony give the cure;

Think'st thou, the fiery fever will go out

With titles blown from adulation?

Will it give place to flexure and low-bending?

Can'st thou, when thou command'st the beggar's knee,
Command the health of it? No, thou proud dream,
That play'st so subtly with a king's repose:
I am a king, that find thee; and I know
"Tis not the balm, the sceptre, and the ball,
The sword, the mace, the crown imperial,

The inter-tissued robe of gold and pearl,
The farced title running 'fore the king,
The throne he sits on, nor the tide of pomp
That beats upon the high shore of this world,—
No, not all these, thrice gorgeous ceremony,
Not all these, laid in bed majestical,

Can sleep so soundly as the wretched slave;
Who, with a body fill'd and vacant mind,
Gets him to rest, cramm'd with distressful bread;
Never sees horrid night, the child of hell;
But, like a lackey, from the rise to set,
Sweats in the eye of Phoebus, and all night
Sleeps in Elysium; next day, after dawn,
Doth rise, and help Hyperion to his horse;
And follows so the ever-running year
With profitable labour, to his grave:
And, but for ceremony, such a wretch,
Winding up days with toil, and nights with sleep,
Had the fore-hand and vantage of a king.
The slave, a member of the country's peace,
Enjoys it; but in gross brain little wots

What watch the king keeps to maintain the peace,

Whose hours the peasant best advantages.-Id.

Westmoreland. O! that we now had here (Enter KING HENRY)

But one ten thousand of those men in England,

Who do no work to-day!

King Henry.

What's he that wishes so?

My cousin Westmoreland ?-No, my fair cousin :

If we are mark'd to die, we are enough

To do our country loss; and if to live,

The fewer men, the greater share of honour.
I pray thee, wish not one man more.

... I am not covetous for 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 desires:
But, if it be a sin to covet honour,

I am the most offending soul alive.

No, 'faith, my coz, wish not a man from England:
... I would not lose so great an honour,

As one man more, methinks, would spare from me,
For the best hope I have. O! do not wish one more;
Rather proclaim it, Westmoreland, through my host,
That he, which hath no stomach 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 feast of Crispian ;
He, that outlives this day, and comes safe home,
Will stand a tip-toe when this day is nam'd,
And rouse him at the name of Crispian :
He, that shall live this day, and see old age,
Will yearly on the vigil feast his friends,
And say,-to-morrow is Saint Crispian;
Then will he strip his sleeve, and show his scars,
And say, these wounds I had on Crispin's day.
Old men forget; yet all shall be forgot,
But he'll remember, with advantages,

What feats he did that day: Then shall our names,
Familiar in their mouths as household words,—
Harry the king, Bedford and Exeter,

Warwick and Talbot, Salisbury and Gloster,-
Be in their flowing cups freshly remember'd:
This story shall the good man teach his son:
And Crispin Crispian shall ne'er go by,
From this day to the ending of the world,
But we in it shall be remember'd:

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 ne'er so vile,
This day shall gentle his condition :

And gentlemen of 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 Saint Crispin's day.-Sc. 3.

Fluellen. I think it is in Macedon, where Alexander is porn. I tell you, captain,-If you look in the maps of the 'orld, I warrant, you shall find, in the comparisons between Macedon and Monmouth, that the situations, look you, is both alike. There is a river in Macedon; and there is also moreover a river at Monmouth: it is called Wye, at Monmouth; but it is out of my prains, what is the name of the other river; but 'tis all one, 'tis so like as my fingers is to my fingers, and there is salmons in both.-Sc. 7.

Fluellen. Alexander in his rages, and his furies, and his wraths, and his cholers, and his moods, and his displeasures, and his indignations, and also being a little intoxicates in his