I would not haue the king anfwer for me.
Yet I intend to fight luftily for him.

King. Well, I heard the king wold not be ransomd,
2. Soul. I he faid fo, to make vs fight;

But when our throats be cut, he may be ranfomd,

And we neuer the wifer.

King. If I liue to fee that, ile neuer trust his word againe. 2. Soul. Maffe you'l pay him then,

Tis a great displeasure that an elder
Gun can do against a cannon,

Or a fubiect against a monarch.

You'l nere take his word againe, you are a naffe, goe.
King. Your reproofe is fomewhat too bitter;

Were it not at this time I could be angry.

2. Soul. Why let it be a quarrell if thou wilt. King. How fhall I know thee?

2. Soul. Here's my gloue, which if euer I fee in thy hat, Ile challenge thee, and ftrike thee.

King. Here is likewise another of mine,

And affure thee ile weare it.

2. Soul. Thou dar'ft as well be hangd.
3. Soul. Be friends you fooles,

We haue French quarrels enow in hand,
We have no need of English broyles.

King. Tis no treason to cut French crownes,

For to morrow the king himselfe will be a clipper.

Exit the fouldiers.

Enter to the King, Glofter, Epingham, and attendants.

King. O God of battels fteele my fouldiers harts,
Take from them now the fence of reckoning,

That the apposed multitudes which stand before them,
May not appale their courage.

O not too day, not too day O God,
Thinke on the fault my father made,
In compaffing the crowne.

I Richards body haue interred new,

And on it hath beftow'd more contrite teares,

Then from it iffued forced drops of blood;
A hundred men haue I in yearely pay,

Which every day their withered hands hold vp
To heauen, to pardon blood,

And I haue built two chanceries, more will I do:
Though all that I can do is all too little.

Enter Glofter.

Glo. My lord.

King. My brother Glofters voice.

Glo. My lord, the army ftayes vpon your prefence. Kin. Stay Glofter stay, and I will go with thee, The day, my friends, and all things stayes for me.

Enter Clarence, Glofter, Exeter, and Salisbury.

War. My lords, the French are very strong, Ex. There's fiue to one, and yet they are all fresh. War. Of fighting men they haue full forty thousand. Sal. The oddes is all too great. Farwell kinde lords: Braue Clarence, and my lord of Glofter,

My lord of Warwicke, and to all farewell.

Cla. Farewell kinde lords, fight valiantly to day,

And yet in truth I do thee wrong,

For thou art made on the true fparkes of honor.

Enter King.

War. O would we had but ten thoufand men

Now at this inftant, that doth not worke in England.

Kin. Whose that, that wishes fo, my coufen Warwick? Gods will I would not loose the honour

One man would fhare from me,

Not for my kingdome.

No faith my cofen, wish not one man more,

Rather proclaime it presently through our camp
That he that hath no stomacke to this feaft
Let him depart, his pasport shall bee drawne.
And crownes for conuoy put into his purse,
We would not dye in that mans company,
That feares his fellowship to dye with vs,
This day is called the day of Crifpin:

He that out-liues this day, and fees olde age,
Shall stand a tipto when this day is named,
And rowfe him at the name of Crifpin.

He that out-liues this day, and comes fafe home,
Shall yearly on the vigill feaft his friends,
And fay, to morrow is S. Crifpins day :
Then shall we in their flowing boules
Be newly remembred. Harry the king,
Bedford and Exeter, Clarence, and Glofter,
Warwicke, and Yorke,

Familiar in their mouths as houfhold wordes.
This story fhall the good man tell his fon,
And from this day vnto the generall doome,
But we in it shall be remembred.

We few, we happy few, we bond of brothers,
For he to day that fheds his blood by mine
Shall be my brother. Be he nere fo base

This day fhall gentle his condition.

Then shall he strip his fleeues, and fhew his fears,

And say these wounds I had on Crispins day.

And gentlemen in England now a bed,

Shall thinke themfelues accurft,

C 3

They

They were not there, when any speakes
That fought with vs vpon S. Crifpines day.

Glo. My gracious lord,

The French is in the field.

Kin. Why all things are ready if our mindes be fo. War. Perifh the man whose minde is backward now. King Thou doft not with more helpe from England, coufen? War. Gods will my liege, would you and I alone, Without more helpe, might fight this battell out. Why well faid. That doth please me better, You know your charge,

Then to wish me one.

God be with you all.

Enter the Herauld from the French.

Her. Once more I come to know of thee king Henry,

What thou wilt giue for ranfome ?

King. Who hath fent thee now?

Her. The conftable of France.

King. I prethee beare my former anfwer backe,

Bid them atchieue me, and then fell my bones.

Good God, why fhould they mocke good fellowes thus?

The man that once did fell the lyons skin

While the beaft liued, was kild with hunting him.

And

many of our bodies fhall no doubt

Finde graucs within your realme of France:

Though buried in your dunghils, we fhall be famed,
For there the funne fhall greete them,

And draw vp their honours reaking vp to heauen,
Leauing their earthly parts to choake your clime;
The smell whereof, fhall breed a plague in France;
Marke then abundant valour in our English,

That being dead, like to the bullets crafing,
Breakes foorth into a fecond courfe of mifchiefe,
Killing in relaps of mortality:

Let

Let me speake proudly,

There's not a peece of feather in our campe,
Good argument I hope we shall not flye,
And time hath worne us into flouendry.
But by the maffe, our hearts are in the trim,
And my poore fouldiers tell me, yet ere night
They'l be in fresher robes, or they will plucke
The gay new cloaths ore your French souldiers eares,
And turne them out of feruice. If they do this,
As if it please God they shall,

Then fhall our ranfome foon be levied ;

Saue thou thy labour herauld,

Come thou no more for ranfome, gentle herauld.

They shall haue nought I fweare, but these my bones:
Which if they haue, as I will leaue vm them,

Will yeeld them little, tell the conftable.

Her. I fhall deliuer fo.

Exit Herald.

Yorke. My gracious lord, vpon my knee I craue

The leading of the vaward.

King. Take it braue Yorke.

Come fouldiers let's away,

And as thou pleasest God, dispose the day.

Exit.

Enter the foure French lords.

Gebon. O diabello.

Con. Mor du ma vie.

Orle. O what a day is this!

Bur. O Iour dei houte all is gone, all is lost.

Con. We are enow yet living in the field,

To fmother vp the English,

If any order might be thought vpon.

Bur. A plague of order, once more to the field, And he that will not follow Burbon now,