University of Virginia Library

SCENE IV.

The English Camp.
Enter Gloster, Bedford, Exeter, Erpingham, Westmorland, and all the English Host.
Glou.
Where is the King?

Bed.
The King himself is rode to view their battle.

West.
Of fighting men, they have full threescore thousand.

Exe.
That's five to one; besides, they are all fresh.

Bed.
Heav'n's arm strike with us, 'tis a fearful odds.

West.
O, that we now had here,
But one ten thousand of those men in England,
That do no work, to-day.

Enter King Henry and Attendants.
K. Henry.
What's he that wishes so?
My cousin Westmorland? No, my fair cousin,
If we are mark'd to die, we are enow,
To do our country loss; and if to live,
The fewer men, the greater share of honour.
Don't wish one more;
Rather proclaim it, Westmorland, through my host,
That he who 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 rouze him at the name of Crispian:
He that outlives this day, and sees old age,
Will yearly on the vigil feast his neighbours,
And say to-morrow is Saint Crispian.
Then will he strip his arm, and shew his scars:
Old men forget; yet shall not all forget;
But they'll remember with advantages
What feats they did, that day. Then shall our names,
Familiar in their mouth as household words,
Harry the King, Bedford, and Exeter,
Warwick, and Talbot, Salisbury, and Glo'ster,
Be in their flowing cups freshly remember'd.
This story shall the good man teach his son:
And Crispine 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 in 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 St. Crispian's day.

Enter Gower.
Gow.
My sov'reign lord, bestow yourself with speed:
The French are bravely in their battles set,
And will with all expedience charge on us.

K. Henry,
All things are ready, if our minds be so.

West.
Perish the man whose mind is backward now.

Enter Mountjoy.
Mount.
Once more I come to know of thee, King Harry,
If for thy ransom thou wilt now compound,
Before thy most assured overthrow.

K. Henry.
Who hath sent thee now?

Mount.
The Constable of France.

K. Henry.
I pray thee bear my former answer back.
Bid them atchieve me and then sell my bones.
Good God! why should they mock poor fellows thus?
The man that once did sell the lion's skin
While the beast liv'd, was kill'd with hunting him.
Let me speak proudly; tell the Constable,
We are but warriors for the working day;
Our gayness and our gilt are all besmirch'd
With rainy marching in the painful field,
And time hath worn us into slovenry.
But by the mass, our hearts are in the trim:
And my poor soldiers tell me, yet ere night
They'll be in fresher robes, for they will pluck
The gay new coats o'er the French soldiers heads,
And turn them out of service.
Come thou no more for ransom, gentle herald;
They shall have none I swear but these my joints:
Which if they have as I will leave 'em them,
Shall yield them little, tell the Constable.

Mount.
I shall, King Harry: and so fare thee well.
Thou never shalt hear herald any more.

[Exit.
K. Henry.
I fear thou'lt once more come again for ransom.
Now on, you noblest English,
Whose blood is fetch'd from fathers of war-proof;
Fathers, that like so many Alexanders,
Have in these parts from morn till even fought,
And sheath'd their swords for lack of argument:
Dishonour not your mothers: now attest,
That those whom you call fathers did beget you:
Be copy now to men of grosser blood,
And teach them how to war; and you, good yeomen,
Whose limbs were made in England, shew us here
The mettle of your pasture: let us swear
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.

[Alarm, shouts, &c. Exeunt.