Part 5

KING HENRY. No; nor it is not meet he should. For though I speak it to you, I think the King is but a man as I am. The violet smells to him as it doth to me; the element shows to him as it doth to me; all his senses have but human conditions. His ceremonies laid by, in his nakedness he appears but a man; and though his affections are higher mounted than ours, yet, when they stoop, they stoop with the like wing. Therefore, when he sees reason of fears as we do, his fears, out of doubt, be of the same relish as ours are; yet, in reason, no man should possess him with any appearance of fear, lest he, by showing it, should dishearten his army.

BATES. He may show what outward courage he will; but I believe, as cold a night as ’tis, he could wish himself in Thames up to the neck; and so I would he were, and I by him, at all adventures, so we were quit here.

KING HENRY. By my troth, I will speak my conscience of the King: I think he would not wish himself anywhere but where he is.

BATES. Then I would he were here alone; so should he be sure to be ransomed, and a many poor men’s lives saved.

KING HENRY. I dare say you love him not so ill, to wish him here alone, howsoever you speak this to feel other men’s minds. Methinks I could not die anywhere so contented as in the King’s company, his cause being just and his quarrel honourable.

WILLIAMS. That’s more than we know.

BATES. Ay, or more than we should seek after; for we know enough, if we know we are the King’s subjects. If his cause be wrong, our obedience to the King wipes the crime of it out of us.

WILLIAMS. But if the cause be not good, the King himself hath a heavy reckoning to make, when all those legs and arms and heads, chopp’d off in a battle, shall join together at the latter day and cry all, “We died at such a place”; some swearing, some crying for a surgeon, some upon their wives left poor behind them, some upon the debts they owe, some upon their children rawly left. I am afeard there are few die well that die in a battle; for how can they charitably dispose of anything, when blood is their argument? Now, if these men do not die well, it will be a black matter for the King that led them to it; who to disobey were against all proportion of subjection.

KING HENRY. So, if a son that is by his father sent about merchandise do sinfully miscarry upon the sea, the imputation of his wickedness, by your rule, should be imposed upon his father that sent him; or if a servant, under his master’s command transporting a sum of money, be assailed by robbers and die in many irreconcil’d iniquities, you may call the business of the master the author of the servant’s damnation. But this is not so. The King is not bound to answer the particular endings of his soldiers, the father of his son, nor the master of his servant; for they purpose not their death, when they purpose their services. Besides, there is no king, be his cause never so spotless, if it come to the arbitrement of swords, can try it out with all unspotted soldiers. Some peradventure have on them the guilt of premeditated and contrived murder; some, of beguiling virgins with the broken seals of perjury; some, making the wars their bulwark, that have before gored the gentle bosom of Peace with pillage and robbery. Now, if these men have defeated the law and outrun native punishment, though they can outstrip men, they have no wings to fly from God. War is his beadle, war is his vengeance; so that here men are punish’d for before-breach of the King’s laws in now the King’s quarrel. Where they feared the death, they have borne life away; and where they would be safe, they perish. Then if they die unprovided, no more is the King guilty of their damnation than he was before guilty of those impieties for the which they are now visited. Every subject’s duty is the King’s; but every subject’s soul is his own. Therefore should every soldier in the wars do as every sick man in his bed, wash every mote out of his conscience; and dying so, death is to him advantage; or not dying, the time was blessedly lost wherein such preparation was gained; and in him that escapes, it were not sin to think that, making God so free an offer, He let him outlive that day to see His greatness and to teach others how they should prepare.

WILLIAMS. ’Tis certain, every man that dies ill, the ill upon his own head, the King is not to answer for it.

BATES. I do not desire he should answer for me; and yet I determine to fight lustily for him.

KING HENRY. I myself heard the King say he would not be ransom’d.

WILLIAMS. Ay, he said so, to make us fight cheerfully; but when our throats are cut, he may be ransom’d, and we ne’er the wiser.

KING HENRY. If I live to see it, I will never trust his word after.

WILLIAMS. You pay him then. That’s a perilous shot out of an elder-gun, that a poor and a private displeasure can do against a monarch! You may as well go about to turn the sun to ice with fanning in his face with a peacock’s feather. You’ll never trust his word after! Come, ’tis a foolish saying.

KING HENRY. Your reproof is something too round. I should be angry with you, if the time were convenient.

WILLIAMS. Let it be a quarrel between us if you live.

KING HENRY. I embrace it.

WILLIAMS. How shall I know thee again?

KING HENRY. Give me any gage of thine, and I will wear it in my bonnet; then, if ever thou dar’st acknowledge it, I will make it my quarrel.

WILLIAMS. Here’s my glove; give me another of thine.

KING HENRY. There.

WILLIAMS. This will I also wear in my cap. If ever thou come to me and say, after tomorrow, “This is my glove,” by this hand I will take thee a box on the ear.

KING HENRY. If ever I live to see it, I will challenge it.

WILLIAMS. Thou dar’st as well be hang’d.

KING HENRY. Well, I will do it, though I take thee in the King’s company.

WILLIAMS. Keep thy word; fare thee well.

BATES. Be friends, you English fools, be friends. We have French quarrels enough, if you could tell how to reckon.

KING HENRY. Indeed, the French may lay twenty French crowns to one they will beat us, for they bear them on their shoulders; but it is no English treason to cut French crowns, and tomorrow the King himself will be a clipper.

[_Exeunt soldiers._]

Upon the King! Let us our lives, our souls, Our debts, our careful wives, Our children, and our sins lay on the King! We must bear all. O hard condition, Twin-born with greatness, subject to the breath Of every fool, whose sense no more can feel But his own wringing! What infinite heart’s ease Must kings neglect, that private men enjoy! And what have kings, that privates have not too, Save ceremony, save general ceremony? And what art thou, thou idol Ceremony? What kind of god art thou, that suffer’st more Of mortal griefs than do thy worshippers? What are thy rents? What are thy comings in? O Ceremony, show me but thy worth! What is thy soul of adoration? Art thou aught else but place, degree, and form, Creating awe and fear in other men? Wherein thou art less happy being fear’d Than they in fearing. What drink’st thou oft, instead of homage sweet, But poison’d flattery? O, be sick, great greatness, And bid thy Ceremony give thee cure! Think’st thou the fiery fever will go out With titles blown from adulation? Will it give place to flexure and low bending? Canst thou, when thou command’st the beggar’s knee, Command the health of it? No, thou proud dream, That play’st so subtly with a king’s repose; I am a king that find thee, and I know ’Tis not the balm, the sceptre, and the ball, The sword, the mace, the crown imperial, The intertissued robe of gold and pearl, The farced title running ’fore the King, The throne he sits on, nor the tide of pomp That beats upon the high shore of this world, No, not all these, thrice-gorgeous Ceremony,— Not all these, laid in bed majestical, Can sleep so soundly as the wretched slave, Who with a body fill’d and vacant mind Gets him to rest, cramm’d with distressful bread, Never sees horrid night, the child of hell, But, like a lackey, from the rise to set Sweats in the eye of Phoebus, and all night Sleeps in Elysium; next day after dawn, Doth rise and help Hyperion to his horse, And follows so the ever-running year, With profitable labour, to his grave: And, but for ceremony, such a wretch, Winding up days with toil and nights with sleep, Had the fore-hand and vantage of a king. The slave, a member of the country’s peace, Enjoys it, but in gross brain little wots What watch the King keeps to maintain the peace, Whose hours the peasant best advantages.

Enter Erpingham.

ERPINGHAM. My lord, your nobles, jealous of your absence, Seek through your camp to find you.

KING HENRY. Good old knight, Collect them all together at my tent. I’ll be before thee.

ERPINGHAM. I shall do’t, my lord.

[_Exit._]

KING HENRY. O God of battles! steel my soldiers’ hearts. Possess them not with fear. Take from them now The sense of reckoning, if the opposed numbers Pluck their hearts from them. Not today, O Lord, O, not today, think not upon the fault My father made in compassing the crown! I Richard’s body have interred new, And on it have bestow’d more contrite tears Than from it issued forced drops of blood. Five hundred poor I have in yearly pay, Who twice a day their wither’d hands hold up Toward heaven, to pardon blood; and I have built Two chantries, where the sad and solemn priests Sing still for Richard’s soul. More will I do; Though all that I can do is nothing worth, Since that my penitence comes after all, Imploring pardon.

Enter Gloucester.

GLOUCESTER. My liege!

KING HENRY. My brother Gloucester’s voice? Ay; I know thy errand, I will go with thee. The day, my friends, and all things stay for me.

[_Exeunt._]

## SCENE II. The French camp.

Enter the Dauphin, Orleans, Rambures and others.

ORLEANS. The sun doth gild our armour; up, my lords!

DAUPHIN. _Monte à cheval!_ My horse, _varlet! laquais_, ha!

ORLEANS. O brave spirit!

DAUPHIN. _Via, les eaux et terre!_

ORLEANS. _Rien puis? L’air et feu?_

DAUPHIN. _Cieux_, cousin Orleans.

Enter Constable.

Now, my Lord Constable!

CONSTABLE. Hark, how our steeds for present service neigh!

DAUPHIN. Mount them, and make incision in their hides, That their hot blood may spin in English eyes, And dout them with superfluous courage, ha!

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 embattl’d, you French peers.

CONSTABLE. To horse, you gallant princes! straight to horse! Do but behold yon poor and starved band, And your fair show shall suck away their souls, Leaving them but the shales 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 today 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 hilding foe, Though we upon this mountain’s basis by Took stand for idle speculation, But that our honours must not. What’s to say? A very little little let us do, And all is done. Then let the trumpets sound The tucket sonance and the note to mount; For our approach shall so much dare the field That England shall crouch down in fear and yield.

Enter Grandpré.

GRANDPRÉ. Why do you stay so long, my lords of France? Yond 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 beaver peeps; The horsemen sit like fixed candlesticks With torch-staves in their hand; and their poor jades Lob down their heads, drooping 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; 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 guard; on 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 Gloucester, Bedford, Exeter, Erpingham, with all his host: Salisbury and Westmorland.

GLOUCESTER. Where is the King?

BEDFORD. The King himself is rode to view their battle.

WESTMORLAND. Of fighting men they have full three-score thousand.

EXETER. There’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 today! And yet I do thee wrong to mind thee of it, For thou art fram’d of the firm truth of valour.

[_Exit Salisbury._]

BEDFORD. He is as full of valour as of kindness, Princely in both.

Enter the King.

WESTMORLAND. O that we now had here But one ten thousand of those men in England That do no work today!

KING. What’s he that wishes so? My cousin Westmorland? No, my fair cousin. If we are mark’d to die, we are enough 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 England. 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 more! Rather proclaim it, Westmorland, 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 live this day, and see old age, Will yearly on the vigil feast his neighbours, And say, “Tomorrow is Saint Crispian.” Then will he strip his sleeve and show his scars, And say, “These wounds I had on Crispian’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 Gloucester, Be in their flowing cups freshly remembered. 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 today 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 abed Shall think themselves accurs’d they were not here, And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks That fought with us upon Saint Crispin’s day.

Enter Salisbury.

SALISBURY. My sovereign lord, bestow yourself with speed. The French are bravely in their battles set, And will with all expedience charge on us.

KING HENRY. All things are ready, if our minds be so.

WESTMORLAND. Perish the man whose mind is backward now!

KING HENRY. Thou dost not wish more help from England, coz?

WESTMORLAND. God’s will! my liege, would you and I alone, Without more help, could fight this royal battle!

KING HENRY. 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.

MONTJOY. Once more I come to know of thee, King Harry, If for thy ransom thou wilt now compound, Before thy most assured 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.

KING HENRY. Who hath sent thee now?

MONTJOY. The Constable of France.

KING HENRY. 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 liv’d, 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, They shall be fam’d; 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 abounding valour in our English, That being dead, like to the bullet’s grazing, Break out into a second course of mischief, Killing in relapse 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— As, if God please, they shall,—my ransom then Will soon be levied. Herald, save thou thy labour. Come thou no more for ransom, gentle herald. They shall have none, I swear, but these my joints; Which if they have as I will leave ’em them, Shall yield them little, tell the Constable.

MONTJOY. I shall, King Harry. And so fare thee well; Thou never shalt hear herald any more.

[_Exit._]

KING HENRY. I fear thou’lt once more come again for ransom.

Enter York.

YORK. My lord, most humbly on my knee I beg The leading of the vaward.

KING HENRY. Take it, brave York. Now, soldiers, march away; And how thou pleasest, God, dispose the day!

[_Exeunt._]

## SCENE IV. The field of battle.

Alarum. Excursions. Enter Pistol, French Soldier and Boy.

PISTOL. Yield, cur!

FRENCH SOLDIER. _Je pense que vous êtes le gentilhomme de bonne qualité._

PISTOL. _Qualité? Caleno custore me!_ Art thou a gentleman? What is thy name? Discuss.

FRENCH SOLDIER. _O Seigneur Dieu!_

PISTOL. O, Signieur Dew should be a gentleman. Perpend my words, O Signieur Dew, and mark: O Signieur Dew, thou diest on point of fox, Except, O signieur, thou do give to me Egregious ransom.

FRENCH SOLDIER. _O, prenez miséricorde! Ayez pitié de moi!_

PISTOL. Moy shall not serve; I will have forty moys, Or I will fetch thy rim out at thy throat In drops of crimson blood.

FRENCH SOLDIER. _Est-il impossible d’échapper la force de ton bras?_

PISTOL. Brass, cur! Thou damned and luxurious mountain goat, Offer’st me brass?

FRENCH SOLDIER. _O pardonnez-moi!_

PISTOL. Say’st thou me so? Is that a ton of moys? Come hither, boy; ask me this slave in French What is his name.

BOY. _Écoutez. Comment êtes-vous appelé?_

FRENCH SOLDIER. _Monsieur le Fer._

BOY. He says his name is Master Fer.

PISTOL. Master Fer! I’ll fer him, and firk him, and ferret him. Discuss the same in French unto him.

BOY. I do not know the French for fer, and ferret, and firk.

PISTOL. Bid him prepare; for I will cut his throat.

FRENCH SOLDIER. _Que dit-il, monsieur?_

BOY. _Il me commande à vous dire que vous faites vous prêt, car ce soldat ici est disposé tout à cette heure de couper votre gorge._

PISTOL. Owy, cuppele gorge, permafoy, Peasant, unless thou give me crowns, brave crowns; Or mangled shalt thou be by this my sword.

FRENCH SOLDIER. _O, je vous supplie, pour l’amour de Dieu, me pardonner! Je suis le gentilhomme de bonne maison; gardez ma vie, et je vous donnerai deux cents écus._

PISTOL. What are his words?

BOY. He prays you to save his life. He is a gentleman of a good house; and for his ransom he will give you two hundred crowns.

PISTOL. Tell him my fury shall abate, and I The crowns will take.

FRENCH SOLDIER. _Petit monsieur, que dit-il?_

BOY. _Encore qu’il est contre son jurement de pardonner aucun prisonnier; néanmoins, pour les écus que vous lui avez promis, il est content à vous donner la liberté, le franchisement._

FRENCH SOLDIER. _Sur mes genoux je vous donne mille remerciements; et je m’estime heureux que je suis tombé entre les mains d’un chevalier, je pense, le plus brave, vaillant, et très distingué seigneur d’Angleterre._

PISTOL. Expound unto me, boy.

BOY. He gives you upon his knees, a thousand thanks; and he esteems himself happy that he hath fallen into the hands of one, as he thinks, the most brave, valorous, and thrice-worthy _seigneur_ of England.

PISTOL. As I suck blood, I will some mercy show. Follow me!

BOY. _Suivez-vous le grand capitaine._

[_Exeunt Pistol and French Soldier._]