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Con. I will cap that proverb with~there is flattery in friendship

Orl. And I will take up that with-give the devil his due.

Con. Well placed: there stands your friend for the devil: have at the very eye of that proverb, with—a pox of the devil.

Orl. You are the better at proverbs, by how mucha fool's bolt is soon shot.

Con. You have shot over.
Orl. "Tis not the first time you were overshot.

Enter a Messenger. Mess. My lord high constable, the English lie within fifteen hundred


tents. Con. Who hath measured the ground? Mess. The lord Grandpré.

Con. A valiant and most expert gentleman.- Would it were day !- Alas, poor Harry of England he longs not for the dawning, as we do.

Orl. What a wretched and peevish fellow is this king of England, to mope with his fat-brained followers so far out of his knowledge.

Con. If the English had any apprehension, they would run away.

Orl. That they lack; for if their heads had any intellectual armour, they could never wear such heavy head-pieces.

Ram. That island of England breeds very valiant creatures: their mastiffs are of unmatchable courage.

Orl. Foolish curs ! that run winking into the mouth of a Russian bear, and have their heads crushed like rotten apples. You may as well say, that's a valiant flea, that dare eat his breakfast on the lip of a lion.

Con. Just, just; and the men do sympathize with


PEEVISH fellow-] 1. e. silly, foolish fellow. See Vol. ii. p. 130. 162 ; and Vol. iii. p. 348 ; and this Vol. p. 286.

the mastiffs in robustious and rough coming on, leaving their wits with their wives : and, then, give them great meals of beef, and iron and steel, they will eat like wolves, and fight like devils.

Orl. Ay, but these English are shrewdly out of beef.

Con. Then shall we find to-morrow they have only stomachs to eat, and none to fight. Now is it time to arm: come, shall we about it?

Orl. It is now two o'clock: but, let me see, by ten, We shall have each a hundred Englishmen.




Chor. Now entertain conjecture of a time, When creeping murmur, and the poring dark, Fills the wide vessel of the universe. From camp to camp, through the foul womb of night, The hum of either army stilly sounds, That the fix'd sentinels almost receive The secret whispers of each other's watch : Fire answers fire, and through their paly flames Each battle sees the other's umber'd face: Steed threatens steed, in high and boastful neighs Piercing the night's dull ear; and from the tents, The armourers, accomplishing the knights, With busy hammers closing rivets up, Give dreadful note of preparation. The country cocks do crow, the clocks do toll, And the third hour of drowsy morning name'. Proud of their numbers, and secure in soul,


of drowsy morning NAME.] The folio reads nam'd. The error was corrected by Tyrwhitt.

The confident and over-lusty French
· Do the low-rated English play at dice;
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 ruin'd 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-watched 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.
And so our scene must to the battle fly;
Where, O for pity! we shall much disgracem
With four or five most vile and ragged foils,
Right ill dispos’d, in brawl ridiculous,-
The name of Agincourt. Yet, sit and see;
Minding true things by what their mockeries be. [Exit.

& PRESENTETH them-] The folio, presented.


The English Camp at Agincourt.

K. Hen. Gloster, 'tis true that we are in great

The greater, therefore, should our courage be.-
Good morrow, brother Bedford.—God Almighty!
There is some soul of goodness in things evil,
Would men observingly distil it out,
For our bad neighbour makes us early stirrers,
Which is both healthful, and good husbandry :
Besides, they are our outward consciences,
And preachers to us all; admonishing,
That we should ’dress us fairly for our end.
Thus may we gather honey from the weed,
And make a moral of the devil himself.


Good morrow, old sir Thomas Erpingham :
A good soft pillow for that good white head
Were better than a churlish turf of France.

Erp. Not so, my liege: this lodging likes me better,
Since I may say, now lie I like a king.
K. Hen. 'Tis good for men to love their present

Upon example; so the spirit is eased :
And when the mind is quicken’d, out of doubt,
The organs, though defunct and dead before,
Break up their drowsy grave, and newly move
With casted slough and fresh legerity.
Lend me thy cloak, sir Thomas.—Brothers both,
Commend me to the princes in our camp;


Do my good morrow to them; and, anon,
Desire them all to my pavilion.
Glo. We shall, my liege.

[Exeunt GLOSTER and BEDFORD. Erp. Shall I attend your grace? K. Hen.

No, my good knight ; Go with my brothers to my lords of England: I and my bosom must debate a while, And, then, I would no other company. Erp. The Lord in heaven bless thee, noble Harry!

[Exit ERPINGHAM. K. Hen. God-a-mercy, old heart ! thou speak’st


Pist. Qui va ?
K. Hen. A friend.

Pist. Discuss unto me; art thou officer?
Or art thou base, common, and popular ?

K. Hen. I am a gentleman of a company.
Pist. Trail'st thou the puissant pike?
K. Hen. Even so.

What are you?
Pist. As good a gentleman as the emperor.
K. Hen. Then you are a better than the king.

Pist. The king's a bawcock, and a heart of gold,
A lad of life, an imp of fame;
Of parents good, of fist most valiant :
I kiss his dirty shoe, and from heart-string
I love the lovely bully. What's thy name?

K. Hen. Harry le Roy.
Pist. Le Roy! a Cornish name : art thou of Cornish

crew ?

K. Hen. No, I am a Welshman.
Pist. Know'st thou Fluellen?
K. Hen. Yes.

Pist. Tell him, I'll knock his leek about his pate,
Upon Saint David's day.

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