Possess them not with fear; take from them now The sense of reckoning, if the opposéd 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 interréd new,

And on it have bestowed more contrite tears
Than from it issued forcéd drops of blood;
Five hundred poor I have in yearly pay,

Who twice a-day their withered hands hold up
Toward heaven, to pardon blood; and I have built
Two chantries, 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. [Afoot.] 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.-The French Camp.

Enter the DAUPHIN, ORLEANS, RAMBURES, and others.

Orl. The sun doth gild our armour; up, my

lords!

Dau. Montez à cheval!

laquais! ha!

Orl. O brave spirit!

My horse varlet!

Dau. Via!-les eaux et la terre,—

Orl. Rien puis l'air et le feu.

Dau. Ciel, cousin Orleans.

Enter CONSTABLE.

Now, my lord constable !

Con. Hark, how our steeds for present service

neigh!

Dau. 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 yon poor and starvéd 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 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 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 honours must not.

A very little little let us do,

What's to say?

And all is done. Then let the trumpet sound

The tucket sonance and the note to mount;

For our approach shall so much dare the field, That England shall couch down in fear, and yield.

Enter GRANDPRÉ.

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

Yon island carrions, desperate of their bones,
Ill-favouredly become the morning field:
Their raggéd curtains poorly are let loose,
And our air shakes them passing scornfully:
Big Mars seems bankrupt in their beggared host
And faintly through a rusty beaver peeps:
The horsemen sit like fixéd 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 chewed grass, still and motionless
And their exécutors, 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 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 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.

SCENE III. The English Camp.

[Exeunt.

Enter the English host; GLOUCESTER, BEDFORD, EXETER, SALISBURY, and WESTMORELAND.

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 b' 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,-