The gum down-roping from their pale-dead eyes;
And in their pale dull mouths the gimmal bit
Lies foul with chaw'd 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 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 III.- The English Camp.

Enter the English Host; GLOSTER, BEDFORD, EXETER, SALISBURY, and WESTMORRLAND.

Glo. Where is the king?

Bed. The king himself is rode to view their

battle.

West. Of fighting men they have full three

score 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!

Bed. Farewell, good Salisbury; and good

luck go with thee!

Exe. Farewell, kind lord, fight valiantly today;

And yet I do thee wrong to mind thee of it, For thou art framed of the firm truth of valour. [Exit SALISBURY.

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

West.

Enter KING HENRY.

O that we now had here

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 enow

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 Eng

land:

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 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 see this day, and live old age,
Will yearly on the vigil feast his neighbours,
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 his mouth 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;
And Crispin Crispian shall ne'er go by,
From this day to the ending of the world,
But we in it shall be remembered :

We few, we happy few, we band of brothers;
For he to-day that sheds his blood with me
Shall be my brother; be he ne'er so vile,
This day shall gentle his condition :
And gentlemen in England, now a-bed,

Shall think themselves accursed they were not

here;

And hold their manhoods cheap, whiles any speaks That fought with us upon St. Crispin's day.

Enter SALISBURY.

Sal. My sovereign lord, bestow yourself with

speed: The French are bravely in their battles set, And will with all expedience charge on us.

K. Hen. All things are ready, if our minds be

SO.

West. Perish the man whose mind is backward now!

K. Hen. Thou dost not wish more help from

England, coz?

West. God's will, my liege, 'would you and I alone,

Without more help, could fight this royal battle! K. Hen. Why, now thou hast unwish'd five

thousand men;

Which likes me better than to wish us one. You know your places: God be with you all!

Tucket. Enter MONTJOY.

Mont. Once more I come to know of thee, king Harry,

If for thy ransom thou wilt now compound,
Before thy most assurèd overthrow :
For, certainly, thou art so near the gulf,

Thou needs must be englutted. Besides, in

mercy,

The Constable desires thee-thou wilt mind
Thy followers of repentance; that their souls
May make a peaceful and a sweet retire

From off these fields, where (wretches) their

poor bodies

Must lie and fester.

K. Hen.

Who hath sent thee now?

Mont. The Constable of France.

:

K. Hen. I pray thee bear my former answer

back;

Bid them achieve me, and then sell my bones. Good God! why should they mock poor fellows

thus?

The man that once did sell the lion's skin

While the beast lived, was kill'd with hunting

him.

A many of our bodies shall, no doubt,
Find native graves; upon the which, I trust,
Shall witness live in brass of this day's work:
And those that leave their valiant bones in

France,

Dying like men, though buried in your dunghills,
Theus
They shall be famed; for there the sun shall

greet them,

And draw their honours reeking up to heaven;
Leaving their earthly parts to choke your clime,
The smell whereof shall breed a plague in France.
Mark then rebounding valour in our English,
That, being dead, like to the bullet's grazing,
Break out into a second course of mischief,
Killing in re-lapse of mortality.

Let me speak proudly :-Tell the Constable,
We are but warriors for the working-day :
Our gayness, and our gilt, are all besmirch'd
With rainy marching in the painful field;
There's not a piece of feather in our host,
(Good argument, I hope, we will not fly,)
And time hath worn us into slovenry:
But, by the mass, our hearts are in the trim :
And my poor soldiers tell me, yet ere night
They'll be in fresher robes, or they will pluck
The gay new coats o'er the French soldiers'

heads,

And turn them out of service. If they do this,