And chide the cripple tardy-gaited night Who, like a foul and ugly witch, doth limp So tediously away. The poor condemned English, Like sacrifices, by their watchful fires
Sit patiently and inly ruminate
The morning's danger, and their gesture sad Investing lank-lean cheeks and war-worn coats Presenteth them unto the gazing moon
So many horrid ghosts. O now, who will behold The royal captain of this ruined band
Walking from watch to watch, from tent to tent, Let him cry Praise and glory on his head!'
For forth he goes and visits all his host,
Bids them good-morrow with a modest smile And calls them brothers, friends and countrymen. Upon his royal face there is no note
How dread an army hath enrounded him ; Nor doth he dedicate one jot of colour Unto the weary and all-watchèd night, But freshly looks and over-bears attaint With cheerful semblance and sweet majesty; That every wretch, pining and pale before, Beholding him, plucks comfort from his looks: A largess universal like the sun
His liberal eye doth give to every one, Thawing cold fear, that mean and gentle all, Behold, as may unworthiness define,
A little touch of Harry in the night.
FAIR stood the wind for France, When we our sails advance,
Nor now to prove our chance Longer will tarry;
But putting to the main, At Caux, the mouth of Seine, With all his martial train, Landed King Harry.
And taking many a fort, Furnished in warlike sort, Marcheth towards Agincourt. In happy hour;
Skirmishing day by day
With those that stopped his way, Where the French General lay With all his power.
Which in his height of pride,
King Henry to deride,
His ransom to provide
To the king sending.
Which he neglects the while, As from a nation vile, Yet with an angry smile
Their fall portending.
And turning to his men, Quoth our brave Henry then, 'Though they be one to ten, Be not amazèd;
Yet have we well begun, Battles so bravely won
Have ever to the sun
By fame been raised.
'And for myself,' quoth he, "This my full rest shall be England ne'er mourn for me, Nor more esteem me.
Victor I will remain,
Or on this earth lie slain, Never shall she sustain
Loss to redeem me.
'Poitiers and Cressy tell,
When most their pride did swell, Under our swords they fell, No less our skill is,
That when our grandsire great, Claiming the regal seat,
By many a warlike feat
Lopped the French lilies.'
The Duke of York so dread The eager va'ward led; With the main Henry sped, Amongst his henchmen.
Exeter had the rear,
A braver man not there:
Heavens! how hot they were
On the false Frenchmen!
They now to fight are gone, Armour on armour shone, Drum now to drum did groan, To hear was wonder:
That with the cries they make, The very earth did shake; Trumpet to trumpet spake, Thunder to thunder.
Well it thine age became, O, noble Erpingham, Which didst the signal aim To our hid forces; When from a meadow by, Like a storm suddenly,
The English archery
Struck the French horses.
With Spanish yew so strong, Arrows a cloth-yard long, That like to serpents stung, Piercing the weather; None from his fellow starts, But playing manly parts, And like true English hearts, Stuck close together.
When down their bows they threw,
And forth their bilbos drew,
And on the French they flew,
Not one was tardy;
Arms were from shoulders sent,
Scalps to the teeth were rent, Down the French peasants went, Our men were hardy.
This while our noble King, His broad sword brandishing, Down the French host did ding, As to o'erwhelm it;
And many a deep wound lent, His arms with blood besprent, And many a cruel dent Bruised his helmet.
Gloucester, that duke so good, Next of the royal blood, For famous England stood, With his brave brother, Clarence, in steel so bright, Though but a maiden knight, Yet in that furious fight Scarce such another.
Warwick in blood did wade, Oxford the foe invade,
And cruel slaughter made,
Still as they ran up;
Suffolk his axe did ply, Beaumont and Willoughby Bare them right doughtily, Ferrers and Fanhope.
Upon Saint Crispin's day Fought was this noble fray, Which fame did not delay
To England to carry; O, when shall English men With such acts fill a pen, Or England breed again Such a King Harry?
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