RAMBURES.

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

Enter a Messenger.

MESSENGER.

The English are embattled,1 you French peers.

CONSTABLE.

To horse, you gallant princes! straight to horse!
Do but behold yon poor and starvèd band,
And your fair show shall suck away their souls,
Leaving them but the shales2 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 sheathe for lack of sport: let us but blow on them,

The vapour of our valour will o'erturn them.

'Tis positive, 'gainst all exceptions, lords,

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

About our squares of battle, were enough
To purge this field of such a hilding3 foc;

1 Drawn up in order of battle.

2 Empty shells.

Paltry.

Though we, upon this mountain's basis by
Took stand for idle speculation:

But that our honours must not.
A very little little let us do,

What's to say?

And all is done. Then let the trumpets sound
The tucket-sonance,1 and the note to mount:
For our approach shall so much dare the field,
That England shall couch down in fear, and yield.
Enter Grandpré.

GRANDPRÉ.

Why do you stay so long, my lords of France?
Yon island carrions, desperate of their bones,
Ill-favouredly become the morning field;
Their ragged curtains 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 beaver1 peeps ;
The horsemen sit like fixed candlesticks,

With torch-staves in their hands; 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 chew'd grass, still and motionless;

1 The flourish of defiance.

2 Of their tents.

The Roman god of war.

4 The visor of a helmet.

The chain work of the bit which is in the horse's mouth.

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.

CONSTABLE.

They have said their prayers, and they stay for death.

DAUPHIN.

Shall we go send them dinners and fresh suits,
And give their fasting horses provender,
And after fight with them?

CONSTABLE.

I stay but for my guidon: 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.

[Exeunt.

Scene: The English Camp.

Enter English host:-the Dukes of Gloucester, Bedford, and Exeter; the Earls of Salisbury, and Westmoreland.

Where is the king?

1 Pronounce exekutors. like the executor of a will.

GLOUCESTER.

Those who will dispose of their remains

A small flag used for making signals.

BEDFORD.

The king himself is rode to view their battle.

WESTMORELAND.

Of fighting men they have full threescore thousand.

EXETER.

That's five to one; besides they all are fresh.

SALISBURY.

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 Gloucester, and my good Lord Exeter, And my kind kinsman,-warriors all, adieu!

BEDFORD.

Farewell, good Salisbury; and good luck go with

thee!

EXETER.

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

BEDFORD.

He is as full of valour as of kindness

[Exit Salisbury.

Princely in both.

M

WESTMORELAND.

Oh that we now had here

(Enter King Henry)

But one ten thousand of those men in England

That do no work to-day!

KING HENRY.

What's he that wishes so?

My cousin1 Westmoreland? No, my fair cousin,
If we are marked to die, we are enough
To do our country loss; and if to live,
The fewer men the greater share of honour.
Oh no, 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 outer 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 :
By Heaven, I would not lose so great an honour
As one man more, methinks, would share from me
For the best hope I have! Oh, do not wish one more;
Rather proclaim it, Westmoreland, throughout 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;

1 The mother of Westmoreland was Joanna Beaufort, daughter of John of Gaunt.