 | The Life of Henry the Fift |  |
Actus Tertius.
Chorus.Now entertaine coniecture of a time,
When creeping Murmure and the poring Darke
Fills the wide Vessell of the Vniuerse.
From Camp to Camp, through the foule Womb of Night
The Humme of eyther Army stilly sounds;
That the fixt Centinels almost receiue
The secret Whispers of each others Watch.
Fire answers fire, and through their paly flames
Each Battaile sees the others vmber'd face.
Steed threatens Steed, in high and boastfull Neighs
Piercing the Nights dull Eare: and from the Tents,
The Armourers accomplishing the Knights,
With busie Hammers closing Riuets vp,
Giue dreadfull note of preparation.
The Countrey Cocks doe crow, the Clocks doe towle:
And the third howre of drowsie Morning nam'd,
Prowd of their Numbers, and secure in Soule,
The confident and ouer-lustie French,
Doe the low-rated English play at Dice;
And chide the creeple-tardy-gated Night,
Who like a foule and ougly Witch doth limpe
So tediously away. The poore condemned English,
Like Sacrifices, by their watchfull Fires
Sit patiently, and inly ruminate
The Mornings danger: and their gesture sad,
Inuesting lanke-leane Cheekes, and Warre-worne Coats,
Presented them vnto the gazing Moone
So many horride Ghosts. O now, who will behold
The Royall Captaine of this ruin'd Band
Walking from Watch to Watch, from Tent to Tent;
Let him cry, Prayse and Glory on his head:
For forth he goes, and visits all his Hoast,
Bids them good morrow with a modest Smyle,
And calls them Brothers, Friends, and Countrymen.
Vpon his Royall Face there is no note,
How dread an Army hath enrounded him;
Nor doth he dedicate one iot of Colour
Vnto the wearie and all-watched Night:
But freshly lookes, and ouer-beares Attaint,
With chearefull semblance, and sweet Maiestie:
That euery Wretch, pining and pale before,
Beholding him, plucks comfort from his Lookes.
A Largesse vniuersall, like the Sunne,
His liberall Eye doth giue to euery one,
Thawing cold feare, that meane and gentle all
Behold, as may vnworthinesse define.
A little touch of Harry in the Night,
And so our Scene must to the Battaile flye:
Where, O for pitty, we shall much disgrace,
With foure or fiue most vile and ragged foyles,
(Right ill dispos'd, in brawle ridiculous)
The Name of Agincourt: Yet sit and see,
Minding true things, by what their Mock'ries bee.
Exit.
Enter the King, Bedford, and Gloucester.
King.
Gloster, 'tis true that we are in great danger,
The greater therefore should our Courage be.
God morrow Brother Bedford: God Almightie,
There is some soule of goodnesse in things euill,
Would men obseruingly distill it out.
For our bad Neighbour makes vs early stirrers,
Which is both healthfull, and good husbandry.
Besides, they are our outward Consciences,
And Preachers to vs all; admonishing,
That we should dresse vs fairely for our end.
Thus may we gather Honey from the Weed,
And make a Morall of the Diuell himselfe.
Enter Erpingham.
Good morrow old Sir Thomas Erpingham:
A good soft Pillow for that good white Head,
Were better then a churlish turfe of France.
Erping.
Not so my Liege, this Lodging likes me better,
Since I may say, now lye I like a King.
King.
'Tis good for men to loue their present paines,
Vpon example, so the Spirit is eased:
And when the Mind is quickned, out of doubt
The Organs, though defunct and dead before,
Breake vp their drowsie Graue, and newly moue
With casted slough, and fresh legeritie.
Lend me thy Cloake Sir Thomas: Brothers both,
Commend me to the Princes in our Campe;
Doe my good morrow to them, and anon
Desire them all to my Pauillion.
Gloster.
We shall, my Liege.
Erping.
Shall I attend your Grace?
King.
No, my good Knight:
Goe with my Brothers to my Lords of England:
I and my Bosome must debate a while,
And then I would no other company.
Erping.
The Lord in Heauen blesse thee, Noble
Harry.
Exeunt.
King.
God a mercy old Heart, thou speak'st chearefully.
Enter Pistoll.
Pist.
Che vous la?
King.
A friend.
Pist.
Discusse vnto me, art thou Officer, or art thou
base, common, and popular?
King.
I am a Gentleman of a Company.
Pist.
Trayl'st thou the puissant Pyke?
King.
Euen so: what are you?
Pist.
As good a Gentleman as the Emperor.
King.
Then you are a better then the King.
Pist.
The King's a Bawcock, and a Heart of Gold, a
Lad of Life, an Impe of Fame, of Parents good, of Fist
most valiant: I kisse his durtie shooe, and from heart-string
I loue the louely Bully. What is thy Name?
King.
Harry le Roy.
Pist.
Le Roy? a Cornish Name: art thou of Cornish Crew?
King.
No, I am a Welchman.
Pist.
Know'st thou Fluellen?
King.
Yes.
Pist.
Tell him Ile knock his Leeke about his Pate vpon
S. Dauies day.
King.
Doe not you weare your Dagger in your Cappe
that day, least he knock that about yours.
Art thou his friend?
King.
And his Kinsman too.
Pist.
The Figo for thee then.
King.
I thanke you: God be with you.
Pist.
My name is Pistol call'd.
Exit.
King.
It sorts well with your fiercenesse.
Manet King.
Enter Fluellen and Gower.
Gower.
Captaine Fluellen.
Flu.
'So, in the Name of Iesu Christ, speake fewer: it
is the greatest admiration in the vniuersall World, when
the true and aunchient Prerogatifes and Lawes of the
Warres is not kept: if you would take the paines but to
examine the Warres of Pompey the Great, you shall finde,
I warrant you, that there is no tiddle tadle nor pibble bable
in Pompeyes Campe: I warrant you, you shall finde
the Ceremonies of the Warres, and the Cares of it, and
the Formes of it, and the Sobrietie of it, and the Modestie
of it, to be otherwise.
Gower.
Why the Enemie is lowd, you heare him all
Night.
Flu.
If the Enemie is an Asse and a Foole, and a prating
Coxcombe; is it meet, thinke you, that wee should
also, looke you, be an Asse and a Foole, and a prating Coxcombe,
in your owne conscience now?
Gow.
I will speake lower.
Flu.
I pray you, and beseech you, that you will.
Exit.
King.
Though it appeare a little out of fashion,
There is much care and valour in this Welchman.
Enter three Souldiers, Iohn Bates, Alexander Court, and Michael Williams.
Court.
Brother Iohn Bates, is not that the Morning
which breakes yonder?
Bates.
I thinke it be: but wee haue no great cause to
desire the approach of day.
Williams.
Wee see yonder the beginning of the day,
but I thinke wee shall neuer see the end of it. Who goes
there?
King.
A Friend.
Williams.
Vnder what Captaine serue you?
King.
Vnder Sir Iohn Erpingham.
Williams.
A good old Commander, and a most kinde
Gentleman: I pray you, what thinkes he of our estate?
King.
Euen as men wrackt vpon a Sand, that looke to
be washt off the next Tyde.
Bates.
He hath not told his thought to the King?
King.
No: nor it is not meet he should: for though I
speake it to you, I thinke the King is but a man, as I am:
the Violet smells to him, as it doth to me; the Element
shewes to him, as it doth to me; all his Sences haue but
humane Conditions: his Ceremonies layd by, in his Nakednesse
he appeares but a man; and though his affections
are higher mounted then ours, yet when they stoupe,
they stoupe with the like wing: therefore, when he sees
reason of feares, as we doe; his feares, out of doubt, be of
the same rellish as ours are: yet in reason, no man should
possesse him with any appearance of feare; least hee, by
shewing it, should dis-hearten his Army.
Bates.
He may shew what outward courage he will:
but I beleeue, as cold a Night as 'tis, hee could wish himselfe
in Thames vp to the Neck; and so I would he were,
and I by him, at all aduentures, so we were quit here.
King.
By my troth, I will speake my conscience of the
King: I thinke hee would not wish himselfe any where,
but where hee is.
Bates.
Then I would he were here alone; so should he be
sure to be ransomed, and a many poore mens liues saued.
King.
I dare say, you loue him not so ill, to wish him
here alone: howsoeuer you speake this to feele other
mens minds, me thinks I could not dye any where so contented,
as in the Kings company; his Cause being iust, and
his Quarrell honorable.
Williams.
That's more then we know.
Bates.
I, or more then wee should seeke after; for wee
know enough, if wee know wee are the Kings Subiects:
if his Cause be wrong, our obedience to the King wipes
the Cryme of it out of vs.
Williams.
But if the Cause be not good, the King himselfe
hath a heauie Reckoning to make, when all those
Legges, and Armes, and Heads, chopt off in a Battaile,
shall ioyne together at the latter day, and cry all, Wee dyed
at such a place, some swearing, some crying for a Surgean;
some vpon their Wiues, left poore behind them;
some vpon the Debts they owe, some vpon their Children
rawly left: I am afear'd, there are few dye well, that dye
in a Battaile: for how can they charitably dispose of any
thing, when Blood is their argument? Now, if these men
doe not dye well, it will be a black matter for the King,
that led them to it; who to disobey, were against all proportion
of subiection.
King.
So, if a Sonne that is by his Father sent about
Merchandize, doe sinfully miscarry vpon the Sea; the imputation
of his wickednesse, by your rule, should be imposed
vpon his Father that sent him: or if a Seruant, vnder
his Masters command, transporting a summe of Money,
be assayled by Robbers, and dye in many irreconcil'd
Iniquities; you may call the businesse of the Master the
author of the Seruants damnation: but this is not so:
The King is not bound to answer the particular endings
of his Souldiers, the Father of his Sonne, nor the Master
of his Seruant; for they purpose not their death, when
they purpose their seruices. Besides, there is no King, be
his Cause neuer so spotlesse, if it come to the arbitrement
of Swords, can trye it out with all vnspotted Souldiers:
some (peraduenture) haue on them the guilt of
premeditated and contriued Murther; some, of beguiling
Virgins with the broken Seales of Periurie; some,
making the Warres their Bulwarke, that haue before gored
the gentle Bosome of Peace with Pillage and Robberie.
Now, if these men haue defeated the Law, and outrunne
Natiue punishment; though they can out-strip
men, they haue no wings to flye from God. Warre is
his Beadle, Warre is his Vengeance: so that here men
are punisht, for before breach of the Kings Lawes, in
now the Kings Quarrell: where they feared the death,
they haue borne life away; and where they would bee
safe, they perish. Then if they dye vnprouided, no more
is the King guiltie of their damnation, then hee was before
guiltie of those Impieties, for the which they are
now visited. Euery Subiects Dutie is the Kings, but
euery Subiects Soule is his owne. Therefore should
euery Souldier in the Warres doe as euery sicke man in
his Bed, wash euery Moth out of his Conscience: and
dying so, Death is to him aduantage; or not dying,
the time was blessedly lost, wherein such preparation was
gayned: and in him that escapes, it were not sinne to
thinke, that making God so free an offer, he let him outliue
that day, to see his Greatnesse, and to teach others
how they should prepare.
'Tis certaine, euery man that dyes ill, the ill vpon
his owne head, the King is not to answer it.
Bates.
I doe not desire hee should answer for me, and
yet I determine to fight lustily for him.
King.
I my selfe heard the King say he would not be
ransom'd.
Will.
I, hee said so, to make vs fight chearefully: but
when our throats are cut, hee may be ransom'd, and wee
ne're the wiser.
King.
If I liue to see it, I will neuer trust his word after.
Will.
You pay him then: that's a perillous shot out
of an Elder Gunne, that a poore and a priuate displeasure
can doe against a Monarch: you may as well goe about
to turne the Sunne to yce, with fanning in his face with a
Peacocks feather: You'le neuer trust his word after;
come, 'tis a foolish saying.
King.
Your reproofe is something too round, I should
be angry with you, if the time were conuenient.
Will.
Let it bee a Quarrell betweene vs, if you
liue.
King.
I embrace it.
Will.
How shall I know thee againe?
King.
Giue me any Gage of thine, and I will weare it
in my Bonnet: Then if euer thou dar'st acknowledge it,
I will make it my Quarrell.
Will.
Heere's my Gloue: Giue mee another of
thine.
King.
There.
Will.
This will I also weare in my Cap: if euer thou
come to me, and say, after to morrow, This is my Gloue,
by this Hand I will take thee a box on the eare.
King.
If euer I liue to see it, I will challenge it.
Will.
Thou dar'st as well be hang'd.
King.
Well, I will doe it, though I take thee in the
Kings companie.
Will.
Keepe thy word: fare thee well.
Bates.
Be friends you English fooles, be friends, wee
haue French Quarrels enow, if you could tell how to reckon.
Exit Souldiers.
King.
Indeede the French may lay twentie French
Crownes to one, they will beat vs, for they beare them
on their shoulders: but it is no English Treason to cut
French Crownes, and to morrow the King himselfe will
be a Clipper.
Our Debts, our carefull Wiues,
Our Children, and our Sinnes, lay on the King:
We must beare all.
O hard Condition, Twin-borne with Greatnesse,
Subiect to the breath of euery foole, whose sence
No more can feele, but his owne wringing.
What infinite hearts-ease must Kings neglect,
That priuate men enioy?
And what haue Kings, that Priuates haue not too,
Saue Ceremonie, saue generall Ceremonie?
And what art thou, thou Idoll Ceremonie?
What kind of God art thou? that suffer'st more
Of mortall griefes, then doe thy worshippers.
What are thy Rents? what are thy Commings in?
O Ceremonie, shew me but thy worth.
What? is thy Soule of Odoration?
Art thou ought else but Place, Degree, and Forme,
Creating awe and feare in other men?
Wherein thou art lesse happy, being fear'd,
Then they in fearing.
What drink'st thou oft, in stead of Homage sweet,
But poyson'd flatterie? O, be sick, great Greatnesse,
And bid thy Ceremonie giue thee cure.
Thinks thou the fierie Feuer will goe out
With Titles blowne from Adulation?
Will it giue place to flexure and low bending?
Canst thou, when thou command'st the beggers knee,
Command the health of it? No, thou prowd Dreame,
That play'st so subtilly with a Kings Repose.
I am a King that find thee: and I know,
'Tis not the Balme, the Scepter, and the Ball,
The Sword, the Mase, the Crowne Imperiall,
The enter-tissued Robe of Gold and Pearle,
The farsed Title running 'fore the King,
The Throne he sits on: nor the Tyde of Pompe,
That beates vpon the high shore of this World:
No, not all these, thrice-gorgeous Ceremonie;
Not all these, lay'd in Bed Maiesticall,
Can sleepe so soundly, as the wretched Slaue:
Who with a body fill'd, and vacant mind,
Gets him to rest, cram'd with distressefull bread,
Neuer sees horride Night, the Child of Hell:
But like a Lacquey, from the Rise to Set,
Sweates in the eye of Phebus; and all Night
Sleepes in Elizium: next day after dawne,
Doth rise and helpe Hiperio to his Horse,
And followes so the euer-running yeere
With profitable labour to his Graue:
And but for Ceremonie, such a Wretch,
Winding vp Dayes with toyle, and Nights with sleepe,
Had the fore-hand and vantage of a King.
The Slaue, a Member of the Countreyes peace,
Enioyes it; but in grosse braine little wots,
What watch the King keepes, to maintaine the peace;
Whose howres, the Pesant best aduantages.
Enter Erpingham.
Erp.
My Lord, your Nobles iealous of your absence,
Seeke through your Campe to find you.
King.
Good old Knight, collect them all together
At my Tent: Ile be before thee.
Erp.
I shall doo't, my Lord.
Exit.
King.
O God of Battailes, steele my Souldiers hearts,
Possesse them not with feare: Take from them now
The sence of reckning of th'opposed numbers:
Pluck their hearts from them. Not to day, O Lord,
O not to day, thinke not vpon the fault
My Father made, in compassing the Crowne.
I Richards body haue interred new,
And on it haue bestowed more contrite teares,
Then from it issued forced drops of blood.
Fiue hundred poore I haue in yeerely pay,
Who twice a day their wither'd hands hold vp
Toward Heauen, to pardon blood:
And I haue built two Chauntries,
Where the sad and solemne Priests sing still
For Richards Soule. More will I doe:
Though all that I can doe, is nothing worth;
Since that my Penitence comes after all,
Imploring pardon.
Enter Gloucester.
Glouc.
My Liege.
King.
My Brother Gloucesters voyce? I:
I know thy errand, I will goe with thee:
The day, my friend, and all things stay for me.
Exeunt.
Orleance.
The Sunne doth gild our Armour vp, my
Lords.
Dolph.
Monte Cheual: My Horse, Uerlot Lacquay:
Ha.
Orleance.
Oh braue Spirit.
Dolph.
Via les ewes & terre.
Orleance.
Rien puis le air & feu.
Dolph.
Cein, Cousin Orleance.
Enter Constable.
Now my Lord Constable?
Const.
Hearke how our Steedes, for present Seruice
neigh.
Dolph.
Mount them, and make incision in their Hides,
That their hot blood may spin in English eyes,
And doubt them with superfluous courage: ha.
Ram.
What, wil you haue them weep our Horses blood?
How shall we then behold their naturall teares?
Enter Messenger.
Messeng.
The English are embattail'd, you French
Peeres.
Const.
To Horse you gallant Princes, straight to Horse.
Doe but behold yond poore and starued Band,
And your faire shew shall suck away their Soules,
Leauing them but the shales and huskes of men.
There is not worke enough for all our hands,
Scarce blood enough in all their sickly Veines,
To giue each naked Curtleax a stayne,
That our French Gallants shall to day draw out,
And sheath for lack of sport. Let vs but blow on them,
The vapour of our Valour will o're-turne them.
'Tis positiue against all exceptions, Lords,
That our superfluous Lacquies, and our Pesants,
Who in vnnecessarie action swarme
About our Squares of Battaile, were enow
To purge this field of such a hilding Foe;
Though we vpon this Mountaines Basis by,
Tooke stand for idle speculation:
But that our Honours must not. What's to say?
A very little little let vs doe,
And all is done: then let the Trumpets sound
The Tucket Sonuance, and the Note to mount:
For our approach shall so much dare the field,
That England shall couch downe in feare, and yeeld.
Enter Graundpree.
Grandpree.
Why do you stay so long, my Lords of France?
Yond Iland Carrions, desperate of their bones,
Ill-fauoredly become the Morning field:
Their ragged Curtaines poorely are let loose,
And our Ayre shakes them passing scornefully.
Bigge Mars seemes banqu'rout in their begger'd Hoast,
And faintly through a rustie Beuer peepes.
The Horsemen sit like fixed Candlesticks,
With Torch-staues in their hand: and their poore Iades
Lob downe their heads, dropping the hides and hips:
The gumme downe roping from their pale-dead eyes,
And in their pale dull mouthes the Iymold Bitt
Lyes foule with chaw'd-grasse, still and motionlesse.
And their executors, the knauish Crowes,
Flye o're them all, impatient for their howre.
Description cannot sute it selfe in words,
To demonstrate the Life of such a Battaile,
In life so liuelesse, as it shewes it selfe.
Const.
They haue said their prayers,
And they stay for death.
Dolph.
Shall we goe send them Dinners, and fresh Sutes,
And giue their fasting Horses Prouender,
And after fight with them?
Const.
I stay but for my Guard: on
To the field, I will the Banner from a Trumpet take,
And vse it for my haste. Come, come away,
The Sunne is high, and we out-weare the day.
Exeunt.
Enter Gloucester, Bedford, Exeter, Erpingham with all his Hoast: Salisbury, and Westmerland.
Glouc.
Where is the King?
Bedf.
The King himselfe is rode to view their Battaile.
West.
Of fighting men they haue full threescore thousand.
Exe.
There's fiue to one, besides they all are fresh.
Salisb.
Gods Arme strike with vs, 'tis a fearefull oddes.
God buy' you Princes all; Ile to my Charge:
If we no more meet, till we meet in Heauen;
Then ioyfully, my Noble Lord of Bedford,
My deare Lord Gloucester, and my good Lord Exeter,
And my kind Kinsman, Warriors all, adieu.
Bedf.
Farwell good Salisbury, & good luck go with thee:
And yet I doe thee wrong, to mind thee of it,
For thou art fram'd of the firme truth of valour.
Exe.
Farwell kind Lord: fight valiantly to day.
Bedf.
He is as full of Valour as of Kindnesse,
Princely in both.
Enter the King.
West.
O that we now had here
But one ten thousand of those men in England,
That doe no worke to day.
King.
What's he that wishes so?
My Cousin Westmerland. No, my faire Cousin:
If we are markt to dye, we are enow
To doe our Countrey losse: and if to liue,
The fewer men, the greater share of honour.
Gods will, I pray thee wish not one man more.
By Ioue, I am not couetous for Gold,
Nor care I who doth feed vpon my cost:
It yernes me not, if men my Garments weare;
Such outward things dwell not in my desires.
But if it be a sinne to couet Honor,
I am the most offending Soule aliue.
No 'faith, my Couze, wish not a man from England:
Gods peace, I would not loose so great an Honor,
As one man more me thinkes would share from me,
For the best hope I haue. O, doe not wish one more:
Rather proclaime it (Westmerland) through my Hoast,
That he which hath no stomack to this fight,
Let him depart, his Pasport shall be made,
And Crownes for Conuoy put into his Purse:
We would not dye in that mans companie,
That feares his fellowship, to dye with vs.
This day is call'd the Feast of Crispian:
He that out-liues this day, and comes safe home,
Will stand a tip-toe when this day is named,
And rowse him at the Name of Crispian.
He that shall see this day, and liue old age,
Will yeerely on the Vigil feast his neighbours,
And say, to morrow is Saint Crispian.
Then will he strip his sleeue, and shew his skarres:
Old men forget; yet all shall be forgot:
But hee'le remember, with aduantages,
What feats he did that day. Then shall our Names,
Familiar in his mouth as household words,
Warwick and Talbot, Salisbury and Gloucester,
Be in their flowing Cups freshly remembred.
This story shall the good man teach his sonne:
And Crispine Crispian shall ne're goe by,
From this day to the ending of the World,
But we in it shall be remembred;
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're so vile,
This day shall gentle his Condition.
And Gentlemen in England, now a bed,
Shall thinke themselues accurst they were not here;
And hold their Manhoods cheape, whiles any speakes,
That fought with vs vpon Saint Crispines day.
Enter Salisbury.
Sal.
My Soueraign Lord, bestow your selfe with speed:
The French are brauely in their battailes set,
And will with all expedience charge on vs.
King.
All things are ready, if our minds be so.
West.
Perish the man, whose mind is backward now.
King.
Thou do'st not wish more helpe from England,
Couze?
West.
Gods will, my Liege, would you and I alone,
Without more helpe, could fight this Royall battaile.
King.
Why now thou hast vnwisht fiue thousand men:
Which likes me better, then to wish vs one.
You know your places: God be with you all.
Tucket. Enter Montioy.
Mont.
Once more I come to know of thee King Harry,
If for thy Ransome thou wilt now compound,
Before thy most assured Ouerthrow:
For certainly, thou art so neere the Gulfe,
Thou needs must be englutted. Besides, in mercy
The Constable desires thee, thou wilt mind
Thy followers of Repentance; that their Soules
May make a peacefull and a sweet retyre
From off these fields: where (wretches) their poore bodies
Must lye and fester.
King.
Who hath sent thee now?
Mont.
The Constable of France.
King.
I pray thee beare my former Answer back:
Bid them atchieue me, and then sell my bones.
Good God, why should they mock poore fellowes thus?
The man that once did sell the Lyons skin
While the beast liu'd, was kill'd with hunting him.
A many of our bodyes shall no doubt
Find Natiue Graues: vpon the which, I trust
Shall witnesse liue in Brasse of this dayes worke.
And those that leaue their valiant bones in France,
Dying like men, though buryed in your Dunghills,
They shall be fam'd: for there the Sun shall greet them,
And draw their honors reeking vp to Heauen,
Leauing their earthly parts to choake your Clyme,
The smell whereof shall breed a Plague in France.
Marke then abounding valour in our English:
That being dead, like to the bullets crasing,
Breake out into a second course of mischiefe,
Killing in relapse of Mortalitie.
Let me speake prowdly: Tell the Constable,
We are but Warriors for the working day:
Our Gaynesse and our Gilt are all besmyrcht
With raynie Marching in the painefull field.
There's not a piece of feather in our Hoast:
Good argument (I hope) we will not flye:
And time hath worne vs into slouenrie.
But by the Masse, our hearts are in the trim:
And my poore Souldiers tell me, yet ere Night,
They'le be in fresher Robes, or they will pluck
The gay new Coats o're the French Souldiers heads,
And turne them out of seruice. If they doe this,
As if God please, they shall; my Ransome then
Will soone be leuyed.
Herauld, saue thou thy labour:
Come thou no more for Ransome, gentle Herauld,
They shall haue none, I sweare, but these my ioynts:
Which if they haue, as I will leaue vm them,
Shall yeeld them little, tell the Constable.
Mont.
I shall, King Harry. And so fare thee well:
Thou neuer shalt heare Herauld any more.
Exit.
King.
I feare thou wilt once more come againe for a
Ransome.
Enter Yorke.
Yorke.
My Lord, most humbly on my knee I begge
The leading of the Vaward.
King.
Take it, braue Yorke.
Now Souldiers march away,
And how thou pleasest God, dispose the day.
Exeunt.
Alarum. Excursions. Enter Pistoll, French Souldier, Boy.
Pist.
Yeeld Curre.
French.
Ie pense que vous estes le Gentilhome de bon qualitee.
Pist.
Qualtitie calmie custure me. Art thou a Gentleman?
What is thy Name? discusse.
French.
O Seigneur Dieu.
Pist.
O Signieur Dewe should be a Gentleman: perpend
my words O Signieur Dewe, and marke: O Signieur
Dewe, thou dyest on point of Fox, except O Signieur
thou doe giue to me egregious Ransome.
French.
O prennes miserecordie aye pitez de moy.
Pist.
Moy shall not serue, I will haue fortie Moyes: for
I will fetch thy rymme out at thy Throat, in droppes of
Crimson blood.
French.
Est il impossible d'eschapper le force de ton bras.
Pist.
Brasse, Curre? thou damned and luxurious Mountaine
Goat, offer'st me Brasse?
French.
O perdonne moy.
Pist.
Say'st thou me so? is that a Tonne of Moyes?
Come hither boy, aske me this slaue in French what is his
Name.
Boy.
Escoute comment estes vous appelle?
French.
Mounsieur le Fer.
Boy.
He sayes his Name is M. Fer.
Pist.
M. Fer: Ile fer him, and firke him, and ferret him:
discusse the same in French vnto him.
Boy.
I doe not know the French for fer, and ferret, and
firke.
Pist.
Bid him prepare, for I will cut his throat.
French.
Que dit il Mounsieur?
Boy.
Il me commande a vous dire que vous faite vous
prest, car ce soldat icy est disposee tout asture de couppes vostre
gorge.
Pist.
Owy, cuppele gorge permafoy pesant, vnlesse
thou giue me Crownes, braue Crownes; or mangled shalt
thou be by this my Sword.
French.
O Ie vous supplie pour l'amour de Dieu: ma pardonner,
Ie suis le Gentilhome de bon maison, garde ma vie, & Ie
vous donneray deux cent escus.
Pist.
What are his words?
He prayes you to saue his life, he is a Gentleman
of a good house, and for his ransom he will giue you two
hundred Crownes.
Pist.
Tell him my fury shall abate, and I the Crownes
will take.
Fren.
Petit Monsieur que dit il?
Boy.
Encore qu'il et contra son Iurement, de pardonner aucune
prisonner: neant-mons pour les escues que vous layt a promets,
il est content a vous donnes le liberte le franchisement.
Fre.
Sur mes genoux se vous donnes milles remercious, et
Ie me estime heurex que Ie intombe, entre les main. d'vn Cheualier
Ie peuse le plus braue valiant et tres distinie signieur
d' Angleterre.
Pist.
Expound vnto me boy.
Boy.
He giues you vpon his knees a thousand thanks,
and he esteemes himselfe happy, that he hath falne into
the hands of one (as he thinkes) the most braue, valorous
and thrice-worthy signeur of England.
Pist.
As I sucke blood, I will some mercy shew. Follow
mee.
Boy.
Saaue vous le grand Capitaine?
I did neuer know so full a voyce issue from so emptie a
heart: but the saying is true, The empty vessel makes the
greatest sound, Bardolfe and Nym had tenne times more
valour, then this roaring diuell i'th olde play, that euerie
one may payre his nayles with a woodden dagger, and
they are both hang'd, and so would this be, if hee durst
steale any thing aduenturously. I must stay with the
Lackies with the luggage of our camp, the French might
haue a good pray of vs, if he knew of it, for there is none
to guard it but boyes.
Exit.
Enter Constable, Orleance, Burbon, Dolphin, and Ramburs.
Con.
O Diable.
Orl.
O sigueur le iour et perdia, toute et perdie.
Dol.
Mor Dieu ma vie, all is confounded all,
Reproach, and euerlasting shame
Sits mocking in our Plumes.
A short Alarum.
O meschante Fortune, do not runne away.
Con.
Why all our rankes are broke.
Dol,
O perdurable shame, let's stab our selues:
Be these the wretches that we plaid at dice for?
Orl.
Is this the King we sent too, for his ransome?
Bur.
Shame, and eternall shame, nothing but shame,
Let vs dye in once more backe againe,
And he that will not follow Burbon now,
Let him go hence, and with his cap in hand
Like a base Pander hold the Chamber doore,
Whilst a base slaue, no gentler then my dogge,
His fairest daughter is contaminated.
Con.
Disorder that hath spoyl'd vs, friend vs now,
Let vs on heapes go offer vp our liues.
Orl.
We are enow yet liuing in the Field,
To smother vp the English in our throngs,
If any order might be thought vpon.
Bur.
The diuell take Order now, Ile to the throng;
Let life be short, else shame will be too long.
Exit.
Alarum. Enter the King and his trayne, with Prisoners.
King.
Well haue we done, thrice-valiant Countrimen,
But all's not done, yet keepe the French the field.
Exe.
The D. of York commends him to your Maiesty
King.
Liues he good Vnckle: thrice within this houre
I saw him downe; thrice vp againe, and fighting,
From Helmet to the spurre, all blood he was.
Exe.
In which array (braue Soldier) doth he lye,
Larding the plaine: and by his bloody side,
(Yoake-fellow to his honour-owing-wounds)
The Noble Earle of Suffolke also lyes.
Suffolke first dyed, and Yorke all hagled ouer
Comes to him, where in gore he lay insteeped,
And takes him by the Beard, kisses the gashes
That bloodily did yawne vpon his face.
He cryes aloud; Tarry my Cosin Suffolke,
My soule shall thine keepe company to heauen:
Tarry (sweet soule) for mine, then flye a-brest:
As in this glorious and well-foughten field
We kept together in our Chiualrie.
Vpon these words I came, and cheer'd him vp,
He smil'd me in the face, raught me his hand,
And with a feeble gripe, sayes: Deere my Lord,
Commend my seruice to my Soueraigne,
So did he turne, and ouer Suffolkes necke
He threw his wounded arme, and kist his lippes,
And so espous'd to death, with blood he seal'd
A Testament of Noble-ending-loue:
The prettie and sweet manner of it forc'd
Those waters from me, which I would haue stop'd,
But I had not so much of man in mee,
And all my mother came into mine eyes,
And gaue me vp to teares.
King.
I blame you not,
For hearing this, I must perforce compound
With mixtfull eyes, or they will issue to.
Alarum
But hearke, what new alarum is this same?
The French haue re-enforc'd their scatter'd men:
Then euery souldiour kill his Prisoners,
Giue the word through.
Exit
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