So that, in these ten thousand they have lost,
There are but sixteen hundred mercenaries;

The rest are princes, barons, lords, knights, 'squires,
And gentlemen of blood and quality.

The names of those their nobles that lie dead,-
Charles De-la-bret, high constable of France;
Jaques of Chatillon, admiral of France;

The master of the cross-bows, lord Rambures;
Great-master of France, the brave sir Guischard Dau-
phin;

John duke of Alençon; Antony 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 presents 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 th' other?-Take it, God,
For it is only thine!

K. Hen. 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.

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

K. Hen. Yes, captain; but with this acknowledgment,

That God fought for us.

Flu. Yes, my conscience, he did us great goot.
K. Hen. Do we all holy rites:

Let there be sung Non nobis, and Te Deum.

The dead with charity enclos'd in clay,

And then to Calais; and to England then,

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

ACT V.

[Exeunt.

Enter CHORUS.

Chor. 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 th' 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

8

second.

WITH Wives,] With," wanting in the first folio, was supplied in the

9 a mighty wHIffler-] Douce correctly states that a "whiffler" is properly a fifer. "In process of time (he adds) the word whiffler,' which had always been used in the sense of fifer, came to signify any person who went before in a procession." "Illustrations of Shakespeare," vol. i. p. 507.

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 workinghouse of thought,
How London doth pour out her citizens.
The mayor, and all his brethren, in best sort,
Like to the senators of th' antique Rome,
With the plebeians swarming at their heels,
Go forth, and fetch their conquering Cæsar in :
As, by a lower but by 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's 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:
There must we bring him; and myself have play'd
The interim, by remembering you, 'tis past.
Then brook abridgment, and your eyes advance,
After your thoughts, straight back again to France.
[Exit.

1 To order peace between them; and omit

All the occurrences,] The construction is not easy, although the meaning is evident:-As yet the lamentations of the French invite or induce the king of England to remain in his own country: omit (understood) the coming of the emperor Sigismond, to procure peace between England and France, and omit besides all the occurrences, &c.

SCENE I.

France. An English Court of Guard.

Enter FLUELLEN and GoWER.

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

Flu. There is occasions, and causes, why and wherefore, in all things: I will tell you, as my friend, captain Gower. The rascally, scald, beggarly, lowsy, pragging knave, Pistol, which you and yourself, and all the world, know to be 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 bid me eat my leek. It was in a place where I could not breed no contention. with him; but I will be 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.

Gow. Why, here he comes, swelling like a turkey

cock.

Enter PISTOL.

Flu. 'Tis no matter for his swellings, nor his turkeycocks.-Got pless you, ancient Pistol! you scurvy, lowsy knave, Got pless you!

Pist. 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.

Flu. I peseech you heartily, scurvy lowsy 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.

Pist. Not for Cadwallader, and all his goats.

VOL. IV.

0 0

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

Pist. Base Trojan, thou shalt die.

Flu. 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. [Striking him again.] You called me yesterday, mountain-squire, but I will make you to-day a squire of low degree2. I pray you, fall to: if you can mock a leek, you can eat a leek.

Gow. Enough, captain: you have astonished him.

Flu. 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.

Pist. Must I bite?

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

Pist. By this leek, I will most horribly revenge. I eat, and eat I swear

Flu. Eat, I pray you. Will you have some more sauce to your leck? there is not enough leek to swear by.

Pist. Quiet thy cudgel: thou dost see, I eat.

Flu. 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.

Pist. Good.

Flu. Ay, leeks is goot.-Hold you; there is a groat to heal your pate.

2

a squire of low degree.] An expression, derived from the title of an old popular romance, called "The Squyre of Lowe Degre," printed by W. Copland, formerly among Garrick's Plays in the British Museum, but now properly separated from that collection, and bound by itself. It was reprinted by Ritson in vol. iii. of his Collection. He was of opinion that it was of English origin, and that the author was not indebted to any foreign source for the story, or the treatment of it.