Her. Here is the number of the slaughter'd [Delivers a paper. French. K. Hen. What prisoners of good sort are taken, uncle? Ere. Charles duke of Orleans, nephew to the king; John duke of Bourbon, and lord Bouciqualt; Of other lords, and barons, knights, and 'squires, Full fifteen hundred, besides common men. K. Hen. This note doth tell me of ten thousand That in the field lie slain: of princes, in this number, The names of those their nobles that lie dead,- The master of the cross-bows, lord Rambures; John duke of Alençon; Antony duke of Brabant, The brother to the duke of Burgundy; And Edward duke of Bar: of lusty earls, Grandpré, and Roussi, Fauconberg, and Foix, Beaumont, and Marle, Vaudemont, and Lestrale. Here was a royal fellowship of death! Where is the number of our English dead? [Herald presents another paper. Edward the duke of York, the earl of Suffolk, Ascribe we all.-When, without stratagem, But in plain shock, and even play of battle, On one part and on the other?-Take it, God, Exe. 'Tis wonderful! K. Hen. Come, go we in procession to the village : And be it death proclaimed through our host, To boast of this, or take that praise from God, Flu. Is it not lawful, an please your majesty, to tell how many is killed? K. Hɛn. Yes, captain; but with this acknowledgement, That God fought for us. Flu. Yes, my conscience, he did us great goot. Let there be sung Non nobis, and Te Deum. Where ne'er from France arriv'd more happy men. [Exeunt. ACT V. Enter Chorus. Cho. Vouchsafe to those that have not read the story, That I may prompt them: and of such as have, I humbly pray them to admit the excuse Of time, of numbers, and due course of things, Which cannot in their huge and proper life Be here presented. Now we bear the king Toward Calais: grant him there; there seen, Heave him away upon your winged thoughts, Athwart the sea: Behold, the English beach Pales in the flood with men, with wives, and boys, Whose shouts and claps out-voice the deep-mouth'd sea, Which, like a mighty whiffler* fore the king, Quite from himself, to Godt. But now behold, How many would the peaceful city quit, To welcome him? much more, and much more cause, Invites the king of England's stay at home: An officer who walks first in processions. ti. e. To order it to be borne. Transferring all the honours of conquest from himself to God. § Similitude. The earl of Essex in the reign of Elizabeth. ¶Spitted, transfixed. Theu brook abridgement; and your eyes advance After your thoughts, straight back again to France. [Exit. SCENE I. France. An English court of guard. Enter Fluellen and Gower. Gow. Nay, that's right; but why wear you your leek to-day? Saint Davy's day is past. Flu. There is occasions and causes why and wherefore in all things: I will tell you, as my friend, captain Gower; The rascally, scald, beggarly, lowsy, pragging knave, Pisto!,-which you and yourself, and all the 'orld, know to be no petter than a fellow, look you now, of no merits,-he is come to me, and prings me pread and salt yesterday, look you, and bid me eat my leek: it was in a place where I could not breed no contentions with him; but I will be so pold as to wear it in my cap till I see him once again, and then I will tell him a little piece of my desires. Enter Pistol. Gow. Why, here he comes, swelling like a turkey. cock. Flu. 'Tis no matter for his swellings, nor his turkey-cocks.-Got pless you, ancient Pistol! you scur vy, lowsy knave, Got bless you! Pist. Ha! art thou Bedlam? dost thou thirst, base Trojan, To have me fold up Parca's fatal web*? * 'Dost thou desire to have me put thee to death?" Flu. I peseech you heartily, scurvy lowsy knave, at my desires, and my requests, and my petitions, to eat, look you, this leek; because, look you, you do not love it, nor your affections, and your appetites, and your digestions, does not agree with it, I would desire you to eat it. Pist. Not for Cadwallader, and all his goats. Flu. There is one goat for you. [Strikes him.] Will you be so goot, scald knave, as eat it? Pist. Base Trojan, thou shalt die. Flu. You say very true, scald knave, when Got's will is: I will desire you to live in the mean time, and eat your victuals; come, there is sauce for it. [Striking him again.] You called me yesterday, mountain-squire; but I will make you to-day a squire of low degree. I pray you, fall to; if you can mock a leek, you can eat a leek. Gow. Enough, captain; you have astonished him. Flu. I say, I will make him eat some part of my leek, or I will peat his pate four days:-Pite, I pray you; it is goot for your green wound, and your ploody coxcomb. Pist. Must I bite? Flu. Yes, certainly; and out of doubt, and out of questions too, and ambiguities. Pist. By this leek, I will most horribly revenge; I eat, and eke I swear Flu. Eat, I pray you: Will you have some more sauce to your leek? there is not enough leak to swear by. Pist. Quiet thy cudgel; thou dost see, I eat./ Flu. Much goot do you, scald knave, heartily. Nay, 'pray you, throw none away; the skin is goot for your proken coxcomb. When you take occasions to see leeks hereafter, I pray you, mock at them; that is all. Pist. Good. • Stunned. |