Enter a Messenger.

Mess. My lord high constable, the English lie within

fifteen hundred paces of your tent.

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 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 we shall 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. [Exeunt.

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,
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 overbears 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. Then, 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 disgrace-
With four or five most vile and ragged foils,
Right ill-disposed, in brawl ridiculous,-
The name of Agincourt: Yet, sit and see;
Minding true things, by what their mockeries be.

[Exit. SCENE 1. The English Camp at AGINCOURT. Enter KING HENRY, BEDFORD, and GLOSTER. K. Hen. Gloster, 'tis true, that we are in great danger; 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.

Enter ERPINGHAM.

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 pains, 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 awhile,

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 speakest

cheerfully.

Enter PISTOL.

Pist. Qui va là ? 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. Trailest thou the puissant pike?
K. Hen. Even so: What are you?

Pist. As good a gentleman as the emperor.
K. Hen. Then you are 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 my heart-strings
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. Knowest thou Fluellen ?

K. Hen. Yes.

Pist. Tell him, I'll knock his leek about his pate,

Upon saint Davy's day.

K. Hen. Do not you wear your dagger in your cap

that day, lest he knock that about yours.

Pist. Art thou his friend?

K. Hen. And his kinsman too.
Pist. The figo for thee then!

K. Hen. I thank you: God be with you!
Pist. My name is Pistol called.

K. Hen. It sorts well with your fierceness.

Enter FLUELLEN and Gower, severally.

Gow. Captain Fluellen!

[Exit.

Flu. So! in the name of Cheshu Christ, speak lower.