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only stomachs to eat, and none to fight. Now is it time to arm : Come, shall we about it? Orl. It is now two o'clock: but, let me see,-by

ten, We shall have each a hundred Englishmen.




Chor. 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 2 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 3 face : Steed threatens steed, in high and boastful neighs Piercing the night's dull 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 4 French Do the low-rated English play at dice; And chide the cripple tardy-gaited night,

2 Gently, lowly. 3 Discoloured by the gleam of the fires.

4 Over-saucy.

Who, like a foul and ugly witch, doth limp
So tediously away.

The poor condemned English,
Like sacrifices, by their watchful fires
Sit patiently, and inly ruminate
The morning's danger; and their gesture sad,
Investing lank-lean cheeks, and war-worn coats,
Presenteth them unto the gazing moon,
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-watched night: But freshly looks, and over-bears 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. Then, mean and gentle all, Behold, as may unworthiness define, A little touch of Harry in the night : And so our scene must to the battle fly; Where, (O for pity!) we shall much disgraceWith four or five most vile and ragged foils, Right ill dispos’d, in brawl ridiculous,

VOL. v.


The name of Agincourt: Yet, sit and see ; Mindings true things, by what their mockeries be.



The English Camp at Agincourt. Enter King Henry, BEDFORD, and Gloster. K. Hen. Gloster, 'tis true, that we are in great

danger; The greater therefore should our courage be. Good morrow, brother Bedford.—God Almighty! There is some soul of goodness in things evil, Would men observingly distil it out; For our bad neighbour makes us early stirrers, Which is both healthful, and good husbandry: Besides, they are our outward consciences, And preachers to us all; admonishing, That we should dress us fairly for our end. Thus may we gather honey from the weed, And make a moral of the devil himself.


Good morrow, old sir Thomas Erpingham:
A good soft pillow for that good white head
Were better than a churlish turf of France.
Erp. Not so, my liege; this lodging likes me

Since I may say-now lie I like a king.

5 Calling to remembrance.

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K. Hen. 'Tis good for men to love their present

Upon example; so the spirit is eased :
And, when the mind is quicken'd, out of doubt,
The organs, though defunct and dead before,

up their drowsy grave, and newly move
With casted sloughs and fresh legerity."
Lend me thy cloak, sir Thomas.-Brothers both,
Commend me to the princes in our camp;
Do my good morrow to them; and, anon,
Desire them all to my pavillion.
Glo. We shall, my liege.

[Exeunt Gloster and BEDFORD.
Erp. Shall I attend your grace?
K. Hen.

No, my good knight; Go with my brothers to my lords of England: I and my bosom must debate a while, And then I would no other company. Erp. The Lord in heaven bless thee, noble Harry!

[Erit ERPINGHAM K. Hen. God-a-mercy, old heart! thou speakest



Pist. Qui va ?
K. Hen. A friend.

Pist. Discuss unto me; Art thou officer ;
Or art thou base, common, and popular ?

K. Hen. I am a gentleman of a company.

5 Slough is the skin which serpents annually throw off.

6 Lightness, nimbleness.


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Pist. Trailest thou the puissant pike?
K. Hen. Even so : What are you?
Pist. As good a gentleman as the emperor.
K. Hen. Then you are a better than the king.

Pist. The king's a bawcock, and a heart of gold,
A lad of life, an imp7 of fame;
Of parents good, of fist most valiant:
I kiss his dirty shoe, and from my heart-strings
I love the lovely bully. What's thy name?

K. Hen. Harry le Roy.
Pist. Le Roy! a Cornish name: art thou of

Cornish crew ?
K. Hen. No, I am a Welshman.
Pist. Knowest thou Fluellen.
K. Hen. Yes.

Pist. Tell him, I'll knock his leek about his pate,
Upon Saint Davy's day.

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

Pist, Art thou his friend ?
K. Hen. And his kinsman too.
Pist. The figo for thee then!
K. Hen. I thank you : God be with you !
Pist. My name is Pistol called.

K. Hen. It sorts 8 well with your fierceness.

Enter FLUELLEN and GOWER, severally.
Gow. Captain Fluellen!

Flu. So! in the name of Cheshu Christ, speak lower. It is the greatest admiration in the universal ’orld, when the true and auncient prerogatifes and

7 Son.

8 Agrees.

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