Ay, but these English are shrowdly out of beef.

CON. Then shall we find to-morrow they have only stomachs to eat and none to fight. Now is it time to arm. Come, shall we about it?

ORL.

It is now two a' clock; but let me see, by ten

We shall have each a hundred Englishmen.

 

Exeunt.

 

 

Act [IV]

[Enter] 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 dull ear; and from the tents

The armorers, 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 overlusty 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 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,

Presented 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 color

Unto the weary and all-watched 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, that 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 disgrace

With four or five most vile and ragged foils

(Right ill dispos'd, in brawl ridiculous)

The name of Agincourt. Yet sit and see,

Minding true things by what their mock'ries be.

 

Exit.

 

 

[Scene I]

Enter the King, Bedford, and Gloucester.

 

K. HEN.

Gloucester, '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 distill it out;

For our bad neighbor 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.

 

Enter Erpingham.

 

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 better,

Since I may say, »Now lie I like a king.«

K. HEN.

'Tis good for men to love their present pains

Upon example; so the spirit is eased;

And when the mind is quick'ned, out of doubt,

The organs, though defunct and dead before,

Break up their drowsy grave, and newly move

With casted slough 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 pavilion.

GLOU.

We shall, my liege.

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!

 

Exeunt [all but the King].

 

K. HEN.

God-a-mercy, old heart, thou speak'st cheerfully.

 

Enter Pistol.

 

PIST.

Qui vous là?

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.

PIST. Trail'st 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 imp of fame,

Of parents good, of fist most valiant.

I kiss his dirty shoe, and from heart-string

I love the lovely bully. What is 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. Know'st thou Fluellen?

K.