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BRAVE Peers of England, pillars of the state,
To you duke Humphry must unload his grief,
Your grief, the common grief of all the land.
What! did my brother Henry spend his youth,
His valour, coin, and people in the wars;
Did he so often lodge in open field,

In winter's cold, and summer's parching heat,
To conquer France, his true Inheritance?
And did my brother Bedford toil his wits,
To keep by policy what Henry got?

Have you yourselves, Somerset, Buckingham,
Brave York and Salisbury, victorious Warwick,
Receiv'd deep scars in France and Normandy?
Or hath mine uncle Beaufort, and myself,
With all the learned council of the realm,
Studied so long, sat in the council-house
Early and late, debating to and fro,

How France and Frenchmen might be kept in awe?
And was his Highness in his infancy
Crowned in Paris, in despite of foes?

And shall these labours and these honours die?
Shall Henry's conquest, Bedford's vigilance,
Your deeds of war, and all our counsel, die?
O Peers of England! shameful is this league,
Fatal this marriage; cancelling your fame,
Blotting your names from books of memory,
Razing the characters of your renown,
Defacing monuments of conquer'd France,
Undoing all, as all had never been.




WHAT'S he that wishes for more men from England?
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 of 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 lord, 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 hopes I have. Don't wish one more :
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 tiptoe when this day is nam'd,
And rouse him at the name of Crispian :
He that outlives this day, and sees 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.
Old men forget, yet shall not all forget,

But they'll remember, with advantages,

The feats they did that day. Then shall our names, Familiar in their mouths as household-words,

Harry the King, Bedford, and Exeter,

Warwick and Talbot, Sal'sbury and Glo'ster,

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 e'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, while any speaks,
That fought with us upon St. Crispin's Day.






Ir was at a time, when a certain friend, whom I highly value, was my guest. We had been sitting together, entertaining ourselves with Shakspeare. Among many of his characters we had looked into that of Wolsey. How soon,

says my friend, does the Cardinal in disgrace abjure that happiness, which he was lately so fond of! Scarcely out of office, but he begins to exclaim,

Vain pomp and glory of the world, I hate ye!

So true is it, that our sentiments ever vary with the season, and that in adversity we are of one mind, in prosperity of another. As for his mean opinion, said I, of human happiness, it is a truth, which small reflection might have taught him long before. There seems little need of distress, to inform us of this. I rather commend the seeming wisdom of that eastern monarch, who in the affluence of prosperity, when he was proving every pleasure, was yet so sensible of their emptiness, their insufficiency to make him happy, that he proclaimed a reward to the man who should invent a new delight. The reward indeed was proclaimed, but the delight was not to be found. If by delight, he said, you

mean some good; something conducing to real happiness ; it might have been found, perhaps, and yet not hit the monarch's fancy. Is that, said I, possible? It is possible, replied he, though it had been the sovereign good itself. Aud indeed what wonder? Is it probable, that such a mortal as an eastern monarch; such a pampered, flattered, idle mortal, should have attention or capacity for a subject so delicate ? A subject, enough to exercise the subtlest and most acute? What then is it you esteem, said I, the sovereign Good to be? It should seem, by your representation, to be something very uncommon. Ask me not the question, said he ; you know not where it will carry us. It's general idea indeed is easy and plain; but the detail of particulars is perplexed and long; passions and opinions for ever thwart us; a paradox appears in almost every advance. Besides, did our inquiries succeed ever so happily, the very subject itself is always enough to give me pain. That, replied I, seems a paradox indeed. It is not, said he, from any prejudice, which I have conceived against it; for to man I esteem it the noblest in the world. Nor is it for being a subject to which my genius does not lead me; for no subject at all times has more employed my attention. But the truth is, I can scarce ever think of it, but an unlucky story still occurs to my mind:" A certain stargazer with his telescope was once viewing the moon; and describing her seas, her "mountains, and her territories. Says a clown to his companion, Let him spy what he pleases; we are as near to "the moon as he and all his brethren." So fares it, alas! with these our moral speculations. Practice too often where theory can soar. The philosopher proves as weak, as those whom he most contemns. A mortifying thought to such as well attend to it. Too mortifying, replied I, to be long dwelt on. Give us rather your general idea of the Sovereign Good. This is easy from your own account, however intricate the detail.

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Thus then, said he, since you are so urgent, it is thus that I conceive it. The Sovereign Good is that, the possession of which renders us happy. And how, said I, do we possess it? Is it sensual or intellectual? There you are entering, said he, upon the detail. This is beyond your question. Not a small advance, said I, to indulge poor curiosity?

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