against a monarch! you may as well go about to turn the sun to ice, with fanning in his face with a peacock's feather. You'll never trust his word after! come, 'tis a fooling saying.

K. Hen. Your reproof is something too round;* I should be angry with you, if the time were convenient.

Will. Let it be a quarrel between us, if you live.

K. Hen. I embrace it.

Will. How shall I know thee again?

K. Hen. Give me any gage of thine, and I will wear it in my bonnet: then, if ever thou darest acknowledge it, I will make it my quarrel.

Will. Here's my glove; give me another of thine.

K. Hen. There.

Will This will I also wear in my cap: if ever thou come to me and say, after to-morrow, This is my glove, by this hand, 1 will take thee a box on the ear.

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

Will. Thou darest as well be hanged.

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 enough, 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, tomorrow, 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,

Subjected 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,

Sare 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 the soult 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, instead of homage sweet,
But poison'd flattery? O, be sick, great greatness,
And bid thy ceremony give thee cure.

Think'st 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 dreamn;
That play'st so subtly 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 enter-tissued 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 labour, to his grave:
And, but for ceremony, such a wretch,
Winding up days with toil, and nights with sleep,
Had the fore-hand 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.

K. Hen. O God of battles! steel my soldiers' hearts!
Possess them not with fear; take from them now
The sense of reckoning, if the 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 bestow'd 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

*Stuffed, tumid.

[Exit.

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.

Glo. My liege!

Enter GLOSTER.

K. Hen. My brother Gloster's voice ?-Ay;
I know thy errand, I will go with thee:-
The day, my friends, and all things stay for me.

SCENE II-The French Camp.

[Exeunt.

Enter DAUPHIN, ORLEANS, RAMBURES, and others.

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

Dau. Montez à cheval-My horse! valet! lacquay! ha!
Orl. O brave spirit!

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 doubt them with superfluous courage: Ha!

Ram, What, will you have them weep our horses' blood? How shall we then behold their natural tears?

Enter a MESSENGER.

Mess. The English are embattled, you French peers.
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-axe 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.

Ts positive 'gainst all exceptions, lords,

That our superfluous lackeys, and our peasants,-
Who, in unnecessary action, swarm

-were enough

About our squares of battle,

To purge this field of such a hilding foe;
Though we, upon this mountain's basis by

* An encouraging exclamation.

* Mean, despicable.

Do them out.

Took stand for idle speculation:

But that our honours must not. What's to say,
A very little little let us do,

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 curtainst 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 chewed 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 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.
Exe. 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 !

* An introductory flourish on the trumpet.

+ Colours.

* Ring.

Bed. Farewell, good Salisbury; and good luck go with thee! Ere. Farewell, kind lord; fight valiantly to-day: And yet I do thee wrong, to mind thee of it, For thou art framed of the firm truth of valour.

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

West. O that we now had here

Enter KING Henry.

[Exit SALISBURY.

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 named,
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;

* Grieves.