Or fwell my Thoughts to any Strain of Pride-
If any rebel or vain Spirit of mine

Did with the leaft Affection of a Welcome
Give Entertainment to the Might of it;
Let Heav'n for ever keep it from my Head,
And make me as the poorest Vaffal is,
That doth with Awe and Terror kneel to it!

LESSON V.

The Speech of King Henry the Fifth at the Siege of Harfleur.

Or close the Wall up with the English Dead.

In Peace there's nothing fo becomes a Man
As modeft Stillness and Humility:

But when the Blaft of War blows in our Ears,
Then imitate the Action of the Tiger;
Stiffen the Sinews, fummon up the Blood,
Difguife fair Nature with hard-favour'd Rage;
Then lend the Eye a terrible Afpect;
Let it pry o'er the Portage of the Head,
Like the Brafs Cannon: let the Brow o'erwhelm it,
And fearfully as doth a galled Rock

O'erhang and jutty his confounded Base,

Swill'd with the wild and wafteful Ocean.

Now fet the Teeth, and ftretch the Noftril wide;
Hold hard the Breath, and bend up every Spirit
To his full Height. Now on, you nobleft English,
Whofe Blood is fetch'd from Fathers of War-proof;
Fathers, that, like fo many Alexanders,

Have in these Parts from Morn till Even fought,
And fheath'd their Swords for lack of Argument.
Dishonour not your Mothers; now atteft,

That thofe, whom you call'd Fathers, did beget you.
Be Copy now to Men of groffer Blood,

more,

And teach them how to war. And you, good Yeomen,
Whofe Limbs were made in England, fhew us here
The Metal of your Pafture: Let us swear

That you are worth your Breeding, which I doubt not:
For there is none of you fo mean and base,

That hath not noble Luftre in your Eyes;

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I fee

I see you ftand like Greyhounds in the Slips,
Straining upon the Start. The Game's afoot;
Follow your Spirit; and, upon this Charge,
Cry, God for Harry! England! and St. George!

LESSON VI.

Part of the Speech Spoken by the Chorus in the Play of Henry the Fifth. The Time fuppofed to be the Night before the Battle of Agincourt.

OW let Imagination form a Time,

When creeping Murmur, and the poring Dark,

Fills the wide Veflel of the Universe.

From Camp to Camp, through the foul Womb of Night,
The Hum of either Army ftilly founds;

That the fixt Centinels almost receive

The fecret Whispers of each other's Watch.
Fire answers Fire; and through their paly Flames
Each Battle fees the other's umber'd Face.
Steed threatens Steed, in high and boaftful Neighs
Piercing the Night's dull Ear, and from the Tents
The Armourers, accomplishing the Knights,
With bufy Hammers clofing Rivets up,
Give dreadful Note of Preparation.

The Country Cocks do crow, the Clocks do toll:
And (the third Hour of droufy Morning nam'd)
Proud of their Numbers and fecure in Soul,
The confident and over-hafty French
Do chide the cripple tardy-paced Night,
Who, like a foul and ugly Witch, does limp

So tedioufly away. The poor condemned English
Like Sacrifices, by their watchful Fires

Sit patiently, and inly ruminate

The Morning's Danger: and their Danger fad,
Set forth in lank-lean Cheeks and War-worn Coats,
Prefenteth them unto the gazing Moon

So many horrid Ghofts-Who now beholds
The royal Captain of this ruin'd Band

Walking from Watch to Watch, from Tent to Tent,
Let him cry, Praise and Glory on his Head!
For forth he gets and vifits all his Hoft,

Bids them Good-morrow with a modeft Smile,

And

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 give up the leaft Jot of Colour
Unto the weary and all-watched Night;
But freshly looks, and over-bears Fatigue
With chearful Semblance and fweet Majefty:
That ev'ry Wretch, pining and pale before,
Beholding him, plucks Comfort from his Looks.

The Speech of Henry the Fifth at the Battle of Agincourt, where he gained that glorious Victory, which compleated the Conqueft of France, and which is fo highly celebrated by all our Hiftorians, as he encountered near fixty thousand Frenchmen, with fo fmall a Number as 12000 English. The Earl of Weftmoreland faying,

O that we now had here

But one ten thousand of thofe Men in England,

That do no Work to-day!

King Henry, with a noble and undaunted Spirit, Spoke as follows.

WHAT's he, that wishes fo?

W "My

My Coufin Westmoreland? No, my fair Coufin,

If we are mark'd to die, we are enow

To do our Country Lofs; and if to live,

The fewer Men, the greater fhare of Honour.

God's Will! I pray thee wifh not one Man more.
I am not the leaft covetous of Gold;
Nor care I who doth feed upon my Coft;
It yerns me not if Men my Garments wear;
Such outward Things dwell not in my Defire:
But if it be a Sin to covet Honour,
I am the moft offending Soul alive.

No, no, my Lord, with not a Man from England:
I would not lofe fo great, fo high an Honour

As one Man more, methinks, Ihould fhare from me,
For the best Hopes I have. Don't with one more:
Rather proclaim it, Westmoreland, throughout my Hoft,
That he who hath no Stomach to this Fight,

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Let him depart; his Paffport fhall be made,
And Crowns for Convoy put into his Purfe:
We would not die in that Man's Company,
That fears his Fellowship to die with us.
This Day is call'd the Feaft of Crifpian:

He that out-lives this Day, and comes fafe home,
Will ftand-a tip-toe when this Day is nam'd,
And rouze him at the Name of Crifpian:
He that out-lives this Day, and fees old Age,
Will yearly on the Vigil feaft his Neighbours,
And fay, To-morrow is Saint Crifpian:
Then will he ftrip his Sleeve, and fhew his Scars:
Old Men forget; yet fhall not all forget,

But they'll remember, with Advantages,

What Feats they did that Day. Then fhall our Names,
Familiar in their Mouths as Houfhold Words,
Harry the King, Bedford and Exeter,
Warwick and Talbot, Salisbury and Gloucester,
Be in their flowing Cups freshly remember'd.
This Story fhall the good Man teach his Son,
And Crifpin, Crifpian fhall ne'er go by,
From this Day to the Ending of the World,
But we in it fhall be remembered;

We few, we happy few, we Band of Brothers:
For he, to-day that fheds his Blood with me,
Shall be my Brother: be he ne'er fo vile,
This Day fhall gentle his Condition.
And Gentlemen in Englaud, now a-bed,
Shall think themselves accurs'd they were not here,
And hold their Manhoods cheap, while any fpeaks,
Who fought with us upon Saint Crifpian's Day.

LESSON VIII.

The Fall of Cardinal Wolfey.

Wolf. This is the State of Man; to-day he puts forth
F
AREWEL, a long Farewel to all my Greatness!

The tender Leaves of Hope; to-morrow bloffoms,

And bears his blufhing Honours thick upon him;
The third Day comes a Froft, a killing Froft,
And when he thinks, good eafy Man, full furely.
His Greatnefs is a ripening, nips his Root;

And

And then falls, as I do. I have ventur'd,
Like little wanton Boys, that fwim on Bladders,
Thefe many Summers, in a Sea of Glory:
But far beyond my Depth: my high-blown Pride
At length broke under me; and now has left me,
Weary, and old with Service, to the Mercy
Of a rude Stream, that muft for ever hide me.
Vain Pomp and Glory of this World, I hate ye;
I feel my Heart new-open'd. Oh, how wretched
Is that poor Man that hangs on Princes Favours!
There is, betwixt that Smile which we aspire to,
That fweet Regard of Princes, and our Ruin,
More Pangs and Fears than War and Women know;
And when he falls, he falls like Lucifer,

Never to hope again.

Enter Cromwell, ftanding amazed.

Why, how now, Cromwell!

Crom. I have no Power to fpeak, Sir.

Wolf. What, amaz'd

At my Misfortunes? Can thy Spirit wonder,

A great Man should decline?

I'm fallen indeed.

Nay, if you weep,

Crom. How does your Grace?

Wolf. Why, well;

Never fo truly happy, my good Cromwell.
I know myself now, and I feel within me

A Peace above all earthly Dignities;

A ftill and quiet Confcience. The King has cur'd me,
I humbly thank his Grace, and, from thefe Shoulders,
These ruin'd Pillars, out of Pity taken

A Load would fink a Navy, too much Honour.

O, 'tis a Burden, Cromwell, 'tis a Burden,

Too heavy, for a Man that hopes for Heav'n.

Crom. I'm glad your Grace makes that right Use of it.
Wolf. I hope I do: I'm able now, methinks,

Out of a Fortitude of Soul I feel,

T'endure more Miferies, and greater far

Than my weak-hearted Enemies dare offer.

What News abroad?

Crom. The heavieft, and the worst,

Is your Displeasure from the King.

Wolf. God bless him!

Crom. The next is, that Sir Thomas More is chofen

Lord Chancellor in your Place.

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Wolf.