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.

W. Shakespeare.

THE BATTLE OF AGINCOURT.

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?

M. Drayton.