Great Master of France, the brave Sir Guichard Dauphin,
John Duke of Alençon, Anthony 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 shows him another paper.

Edward the Duke of York, the Earl of Suffolk,

Sir Richard Ketly, Davy Gam, esquire:
None else of name; and of all other men

But five and twenty.-O God, thy arm was here;
And not to us, but to thy arm alone,
Ascribe we all!-When, without stratagem,
But in plain shock and even play of battle,
Was ever known so great and little loss

On one part and on the other?---Take it, God,
For it is none but thine!

King Henry. 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

Which is his only.

IOG

Fluellen. Is it not lawful, an please your majesty, to tell how many is killed?

King Henry. Yes, captain; but with this acknowledgment, That God fought for us.

Fluellen. Yes, my conscience, he did us great goot.

King Henry. Do we all holy rites;

Let there be sung 'Non nobis' and 'Te Deum.'

The dead with charity enclos'd in clay,

We'll then to Calais; and to England then;

120

Where ne'er from France arriv'd more happy men. [Exeunt.

Chorus. 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
Seems to prepare his way: so let him land,
And solemnly see him set on to London.
So swift a pace hath thought that even now
You may imagine him upon Blackheath;
Where that his lords desire him to have borne
His bruised helmet and his bended sword
Before him through the city: he forbids it,
Being free from vainness and self-glorious pride;
Giving full trophy, signal, and ostent

Quite from himself to God. But now behold,
In the quick forge and working-house of thought,
How London doth pour out her citizens!
The mayor and all his brethren in best sort,
Like to the senators of the antique Rome,
With the plebeians swarming at their heels,
Go forth and fetch their conquering Cæsar in;
As, by a lower but loving likelihood,

Were now the general of our gracious empress,
As in good time he may, from Ireland coming,
Bringing rebellion broached on his sword,

How many would the peaceful city quit,

To welcome him! much more, and much more cause,
Did they this Harry. Now in London place him;-
As yet the lamentation of the French

Invites the King of England's stay at home;
The emperor coming in behalf of France,
To order peace between them;—and omit
All the occurrences, whatever chanc'd,
Till Harry's back-return again to France:

H

There must we bring him; and myself have play'd
The interim, by remembering you 't is past.
Then brook abridgment, and your eyes advance,
After your thoughts, straight back again to France.

SCENE I. France. The English Camp.

Enter FLUELLEN and GOWER.

[Exit.

Gower. Nay, that 's right; but why wear you your leek to-day? Saint Davy's day is past.

Fluellen. There is occasions and causes why and wherefore in all things: I will tell you, as my friend, Captain Gower: the rascally, scald, peggarly, lousy, pragging knave, Pistol, which you and yourself and all the world know to pe 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 pid me eat my leek: it was in a place where I could not preed no contention with him; but I will pe 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.

12

Gower. Why, here he comes, swelling like a turkey-cock. Fluellen. 'T is no matter for his swellings nor his turkeycocks.-Got pless you, Aunchient Pistol! you scurvy, lousy knave, Got pless you!

Pistol. Ha! art thou bedlam? dost thou thirst, base Trojan, To have me fold up Parca's fatal web?

Hence! I am qualmish at the smell of leek.

Fluellen. I peseech you heartily, scurvy, lousy 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,

Pistol. Not for Cadwallader and all his goats.

24

Fluellen. There is one goat for you. [Strikes him.] Will you pe so goot, scald knave, as eat it?

Pistol. Base Trojan, thou shalt die.

Fluellen. 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. [Strikes him.] 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.

34

Gower. Enough, captain: you have astonished him. Fluellen. 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. Pistol. Must I bite?

Fluellen. Yes, certainly, and out of doubt and out of question too, and ambiguities.

4I

Pistol. By this leek, I will most horribly revenge: I eat, and yet I swear—

Fluellen. Eat, I pray you will you have some more sauce to your leek? there is not enough leek to swear py.

Pistol. Quiet thy cudgel; thou dost see I eat.

Fluellen. 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 'em; that is all.

Pistol. Good.

50

Fluellen. Ay, leeks is goot. Hold you, there is a groat

to heal your pate.

Pistol. Me a groat!

or I

Fluellen. Yes, verily and in truth, you shall take it, have another leek in my pocket, which you shall eat. Pistol. I take thy groat in earnest of revenge. Fluellen. If I owe you any thing, I will pay you in cudgels : you shall pe a woodmonger, and puy nothing of me but cudgels. Got b' wi' you, and keep you, and heal your pate.

60

[Exit.