Con. To horse, you gallant princes! straight to horse
Do but behold yon 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-ax a stain,

That our French gallants shall to-day draw out,
And sheath for lack of sport: let us but blow. on them
The vapour of our valour will o'erturn them.
'Tis positive 'gainst all exceptions, lords,
That our superfluous lackeys, and our peasants,-
Who, in unnecessary action, swarm

About our squares of battle,- —were enough
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 honours must not.
A very little little let us do,

What's to say?

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 down in fear, and yield.

Enter GRANDpre'.

Grand. Why do you stay so long, my lords of France: Yon island carrions, desperate of their bones, Ill-favour'dly become the morning field: Their ragged curtains poorly are let loose, And our air shakes them passing scornfully. Big Mars seems bankrupt in their beggar'd host, And faintly through a rusty beaver peeps. Their 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 bit
Lies foul with chew'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 démonstrate the life of such a battle
In life so lifeless as it shows itself.

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

Dau. 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 guard; On, 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.

SCENE III-The English camp.

[Exeunt.

Enter the English host; GLOSTER, Bedford, Exeter, SALISBURY, and WESTMOREland.

Glo. Where is the king?

Bed. The king himself is rode to view their battle. West. Of fighting men they have full threescore

thousand.

Ere. There's five to one; besides, they all are fresh. Sal. God's arm strike with us! 'tis a fearful odds. God be wi' 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 Gloster,-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 valour.

A

[Exit SALISBURY. Bed. He is as full of valour, as of kindness; Princely in both.

West.

O that we now had here

Enter King HENRY.

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 Westmoreland?—No, my fair cousin :

If we are mark'd to die, we are enough

To do our country loss; and if to live,

The fewer men, the greater share of honour.
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 honour,

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 honour,
As one man more, methinks, would share from me,
For the best hope I have. O, do not wish one

more:

Rather proclaim it, Westmoreland, 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 tip-toe when this day is nam'd,
And rouse him at the name of Crispian.
He, that shall live this day, and see old age,
Will yearly on the vigil feast his friends,
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 their mouths as household words,-
Harry the king, Bedford, and Exeter,
Warwick and Talbot, Salisbury and Gloster,-
Be in their flowing cups freshly remember'd:
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, while 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, cousin?

West. God's will, my liege, 'would you and I alone, Without more help, might fight this battle out!

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!

Mont. Once more I come to know of thee, king Harry, If for thy ransome thou wilt now compound, Before thy most assured overthrow:

For, certainly, thou art so near the gulf,

Thou needs must be englutted. Besides, in mercy,
The Constable desires thee-thou wilt mind

Thy followers of repentance; that their souls

May make a peaceful and a sweet retire

From off these fields, where (wretches) their poor bodies Must lie and fester.

K. Hen.

Who hath sent thee now?

Mont. The Constable of France.

K. Hen. I pray thee, bear my former answer back;

Bid them achieve 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