If ever thou come to me and say, after to-morrow, »This is my glove,« by this hand I will take thee a box on the ear.

K. HEN. If ever I live to see it, I will challenge it.

WILL. Thou dar'st as well be hang'd.

K. HEN. Well, I will do it, though I take thee in the King's company.

WILL. Keep thy word; fare thee well.

BATES. Be friends, you English fools, be friends, we have French quarrels enow, if you could tell how to reckon.

K. HEN. Indeed the French may lay twenty French crowns to one they will beat us, for they bear them on their shoulders; but it is no English treason to cut French crowns, and to-morrow the King himself will be a clipper.

 

Exeunt Soldiers.

 

Upon the King! let us our lives, our souls,

Our debts, our careful wives,

Our children, and our sins lay on the King!

We must bear all. O hard condition,

Twin-born with greatness, subject to the breath

Of every fool whose sense no more can feel

But his own wringing! What infinite heart's ease

Must kings neglect, that private men enjoy!

And what have kings, that privates have not too,

Save ceremony, save general ceremony?

And what art thou, thou idol Ceremony?

What kind of god art thou, that suffer'st more

Of mortal griefs than do thy worshippers?

What are thy rents? what are thy comings-in?

O Ceremony, show me but thy worth!

What is thy soul of [adoration]?

Art thou aught else but place, degree, and form,

Creating awe and fear in other men?

Wherein thou art less happy, being fear'd,

Than they in fearing.

What drink'st thou oft, in stead of homage sweet,

But poison'd flattery? O, be sick, great greatness,

And bid thy ceremony give thee cure!

Thinks thou the fiery fever will go out

With titles blown from adulation?

Will it give place to flexure and low bending?

Canst thou, when thou command'st the beggar's knee,

Command the health of it? No, thou proud dream,

That play'st so subtilly with a king's repose.

I am a king that find thee; and I know

'Tis not the balm, the sceptre, and the ball,

The sword, the mace, the crown imperial,

The intertissued robe of gold and pearl,

The farced title running 'fore the king,

The throne he sits on, nor the tide of pomp

That beats upon the high shore of this world –

No, not all these, thrice-gorgeous ceremony,

Not all these, laid in bed majestical,

Can sleep so soundly as the wretched slave;

Who, with a body fill'd and vacant mind,

Gets him to rest, cramm'd with distressful bread,

Never sees horrid night, the child of hell;

But like a lackey, from the rise to set,

Sweats in the eye of Phoebus, and all night

Sleeps in Elysium; next day after dawn,

Doth rise and help Hyperion to his horse,

And follows so the ever-running year

With profitable labor to his grave:

And, but for ceremony, such a wretch,

Winding up days with toil, and nights with sleep,

Had the forehand and vantage of a king.

The slave, a member of the country's peace,

Enjoys it; but in gross brain little wots

What watch the King keeps to maintain the peace,

Whose hours the peasant best advantages.

 

Enter Erpingham.

 

ERP.

My lord, your nobles, jealous of your absence,

Seek through your camp to find you.

K. HEN.

Good old knight,

Collect them all together at my tent.

I'll be before thee.

ERP.

I shall do't, my lord.

 

Exit.

 

K. HEN.

O God of battles, steel my soldiers' hearts,

Possess them not with fear! Take from them now

The sense of reck'ning, [if] th' opposed numbers

Pluck their hearts from them. Not to-day, O Lord,

O, not to-day, think not upon the fault

My father made in compassing the crown!

I Richard's body have interred new,

And on it have bestowed more contrite tears,

Than from it issued forced drops of blood.

Five hundred poor I have in yearly pay,

Who twice a day their wither'd hands hold up

Toward heaven, to pardon blood; and I have built

Two chauntries, where the sad and solemn priests

Sing still for Richard's soul. More will I do;

Though all that I can do is nothing worth,

Since that my penitence comes after all,

Imploring pardon.

 

Enter Gloucester.

 

GLOU.

My liege!

K. HEN.

My brother Gloucester's voice? Ay;

I know thy errand, I will go with thee.

The day, my [friends], and all things stay for me.

 

Exeunt.

 

 

[Scene II]

Enter the Dolphin, Orleance, Rambures, and Beaumont.

 

ORL.

The sun doth gild our armor, up, my lords!

DOL.

Montez [à] cheval! My horse, varlot lackey! Ha!

ORL.

O brave spirit!

DOL.

Via! les eaux et terre.

ORL.

Rien puis? l'air et feu?

DOL.

[Cieux]! cousin Orleance.

 

Enter Constable.

 

Now, my Lord Constable?

CON.

Hark how our steeds for present service neigh!

DOL.

Mount them, and make incision in their hides,

That their hot blood may spin in English eyes,

And dout them with superfluous courage, ha!

RAM.

What, will you have them weep our horses' blood?

How shall we then behold their natural tears?

 

Enter Messenger.

 

MESS.

The English are embattled, you French peers.

CON.

To horse, you gallant princes! straight to horse!

Do but behold yond poor and starved band,

And your fair show shall suck away their souls,

Leaving them but the shales and husks of men.

There is not work enough for all our hands,

Scarce blood enough in all their sickly veins

To give each naked curtle-axe a stain,

That our French gallants shall to-day draw out,

And sheathe for lack of sport. Let us but blow on them,

The vapor of our valor will o'erturn them.

'Tis positive against all exceptions, lords,

That our superfluous lackeys and our peasants,

Who in unnecessary action swarm

About our squares of battle, were enow

To purge this field of such a hilding foe;

Though we upon this mountain's basis by

Took stand for idle speculation –

But that our honors must not. What's to say?

A very little little let us do,

And all is done. Then let the trumpets sound

The tucket sonance and the note to mount;

For our approach shall so much dare the field,

That England shall crouch down in fear, and yield.

 

Enter Grandpré.

 

GRAND.

Why do you stay so long, my lords of France?

Yond island carrions, desperate of their bones,

Ill-favoredly become the morning field.

Their ragged curtains poorly are let loose,

And our air shakes them passing scornfully.

Big Mars seems bankrout in their beggar'd host,

And faintly through a rusty beaver peeps.

The horsemen sit like fixed candlesticks,

With torch-staves in their hand; and their poor jades

Lob down their heads, dropping the hides and hips,

The gum down-roping from their pale-dead eyes,

And in their pale dull mouths the [gimmal'd] bit

Lies foul with chaw'd-grass, still and motionless;

And their executors, the knavish crows,

Fly o'er them all, impatient for their hour.

Description cannot suit itself in words

To demonstrate the life of such a battle,

In life so liveless as it shows itself.

CON.

They have said their prayers, and they stay for death.

DOL.

Shall we go send them dinners and fresh suits,

And give their fasting horses provender,

And after fight with them?

CON.

I stay but for my [guidon]; to the field!

I will the banner from a trumpet take,

And use it for my haste. Come, come away!

The sun is high, and we outwear the day.

 

Exeunt.

 

 

[Scene III]

Enter Gloucester, Bedford, Exeter, Erpingham with all his host; Salisbury and Westmerland.

 

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.

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

SAL.

God's arm strike with us! 'tis a fearful odds.

God buy you, princes all; I'll to my charge.

If we no more meet till we meet in heaven,

Then joyfully, my noble Lord of Bedford,

My dear Lord Gloucester, and my good Lord Exeter,

And my kind kinsman, warriors all, adieu!

BED.

Farewell, good Salisbury, and good luck go with thee!

EXE.

Farewell, kind lord; fight valiantly to-day!

And yet I do thee wrong to mind thee of it,

For thou art fram'd of the firm truth of valor.

 

[Exit Salisbury.]

 

BED.

He is as full of valor as of kindness,

Princely in both.

 

Enter the King.

 

WEST.

O that we now had here

But one ten thousand of those men in England

That do no work to-day!

K. HEN.

What's he that wishes so?

My cousin Westmerland? 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 honor.

God's will, I pray thee wish not one man more.

By Jove, I am not covetous for gold,

Nor care I who doth feed upon my cost;

It yearns me not if men my garments wear;

Such outward things dwell not in my desires.

But if it be a sin to covet honor,

I am the most offending soul alive.

No, faith, my coz, wish not a man from England.

God's peace, I would not lose so great an honor

As one man more methinks would share from me,

For the best hope I have. O, do not wish one more!

Rather proclaim it, Westmerland, through my host,

That he which 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' tiptoe when this day is named,

And rouse him at the name of Crispian.

He that shall see this day, and live old age,

Will yearly on the vigil feast his neighbors,

And say, »To-morrow is Saint Crispian.«

Then will he strip his sleeve and show his scars,

[And say, »These wounds I had on Crispin's day.«]

Old men forget; yet all shall be forgot,

But he'll remember with advantages

What feats he did that day. Then shall our names,

Familiar in his mouth as household words,

Harry the King, Bedford and Exeter,

Warwick and Talbot, Salisbury and Gloucester,

Be in their flowing cups freshly rememb'red.

This story shall the good man teach his son;

And Crispin Crispian shall ne'er go by,

From this day to the ending of the world,

But we in it shall be remembered –

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 whiles any speaks

That fought with us upon Saint Crispin's day.

 

Enter Salisbury.

 

SAL.

My sovereign lord, bestow yourself with speed.

The French are bravely in their battles set,

And will with all expedience charge on us.

K. HEN.

All things are ready, if our minds be so.

WEST.

Perish the man whose mind is backward now!

K. HEN.

Thou dost not wish more help from England, coz?

WEST.

God's will, my liege, would you and I alone,

Without more help, could fight this royal battle!

K. HEN.

Why, now thou hast unwish'd five thousand men;

Which likes me better than to wish us one.

You know your places. God be with you all!

 

Tucket.