ACT IV.

Enter CHORUS.

Chorus.

Now entertain conjecture of a time,

When creeping murmur, and the poring dark,
Fills the wide veffel of the universe.

From camp to camp, through the foul womb of night,
The hum of either army ftilly founds,

That the fix'd centinels almost receive
The fecret whispers of each other's watch:
Fire anfwers fire; and through their paly flames
Each battle fees the other's umber'd face:
Steed threatens fteed, in high and boastful neighs
Piercing the night's dull ear; and from the tents,
The armourers, accomplishing the knights,
With bufy hammers clofing 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 foul,
The confident and over-lufty 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 tedioufly away. The poor condemned English,
Like facrifices, by their watchful fires

Sit patiently, and inly ruminate

The morning's danger; and their gesture fad,
Investing lank-lean cheeks, and war-worn coats,
Prefenteth them unto the gazing moon

So many horrid ghosts. O, now, who will behold

The

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 vifits 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 femblance, and sweet majesty;
That every wretch, pining and pale before,
Beholding him, plucks comfort from his looks:
A largefs univerfal, like the fun,

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 fo our scene must to the battle fly;
Where, (O for pity!) we fhall much difgrace-
With four or five moít vile and ragged foils,
Right ill difpos'd, in brawl ridiculous,-
The name of Agincourt: Yet, fit and fee;
Minding true things, by what their mockeries be.

[Exit.

SCENE I. The English Camp at Agincourt. Enter King HENRY, BEDFORD, and GLOSTER. K. Henry. Glofter, 'tis true, that we are in great danger;

The greater therefore fhould our courage be.

Good morrow, brother Bedford.—God Almighty!

F 2

There

There is fome foul of goodness in things evil,
Would men obfervingly distil it out;

For our bad neighbour makes us early stirrers,
Which is both healthful, and good husbandry:
Besides, they are our outward confciences,
And preachers to us all; admonishing,
That we fhould 'drefs 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 fir Thomas Erpingham:
A good foft pillow for that good white head
Were better than a churlifh turf of France.

Erp. Not fo, my liege; this lodging likes me better, Since I may fay-now lie I like a king.

K. Henry. 'Tis good for men to love their prefent
Upon example; fo the fpirit is eased: [pains,
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 cafted flough and fresh legerity.

Lend me thy cloak, fir Thomas.-Brothers both,
Commend me to the princes in our camp;
Do my good morrow to them; and, anon,
Defire them all to my pavilion.

Glo. We fhall, my liege. [Exeunt GLO. and BED.
Erp. Shall I attend your grace?

K. Henry. No, my good knight;

Go with my brothers to my lords of England:
I and my bofom must debate a while,
And then I would no other company.

Erp. The Lord in heaven bless thee, noble Harry!

[Exit. K. Henry.

K. Henry. God-a-mercy, old heart! thou speak't

cheerfully.

Pift. Qui va lá?

Enter PISTOL,

K. Henry. A friend.

Pift. Difcufs unto me; Art thou officer? Or art thou base, common, and popular? K. Henry. I am a gentleman of a company, Pift. Trail'ft thou the puiffant pike? K. Henry. Even fo: What are you? Pift. As good a gentleman as the emperor. K. Henry. Then you are a better than the king. Pift. 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 kifs his dirty fhoe, and from my heart-strings
I love the lovely bully. What's thy name?
K. Henry. Harry le Roy.

Pift. Le Roy! a Cornish name: art thou of Cornish crew?

K. Henry. No, I am a Welshman,

Pift. Know'st thou Fluellen?

K. Henry. Yes.

Pift. Tell him, I'll knock his leek about his pate, Upon faint Davy's day.

K. Henry. Do not you wear your dagger in your cap that day, left he knock that about yours.

Pift. Art thou his friend?

K. Henry. And his kinfman too.

Pift. The figo for thee then!

K. Henry. I thank you: God be with you!
Pift. My name is Pistol call'd.

K. Henry. It forts well with your fiercenefs.

F3

[Exit.

Enter

Enter FLUELLEN, and GoWER, feverally.

Gower. Captain Fluellen!

Flu. So! in the name of Cheshu Christ, speak lower. It is the greatest admiration in the univerfal 'orld, when the true and auncient prerogatifes and laws of the wars is not kept: if you would take the pains but to examine the wars of Pompey the great, you fhall find, I warrant you, that there is no tiddle taddle, nor pibble pabble, in Pompey's camp; I warrant you, you hall find the ceremonies of the wars, and the cares of it, and the forms of it, and the fobriety of it, and the modefty of it, to be otherwife.

Gower. Why, the enemy is loud; you heard him all night.

Flu. If the enemy is an afs and a fool, and a prating coxcomb, is it meet, think you, that we should also, look you, be an afs, and a fool, and a prating coxcomb; in your own confcience now?

Gower. I will fpeak lower.

Flu. I pray you, and pefeech you, that you will. [Exeunt GoWER, and FLUELLEN. K. Henry. Though it appear a little out of fashion, There is much care and valour in this Welfhman.

Enter three Soldiers, JOHN BATES, ALEXANDER COURT, and MICHAEL WILLIAMS.

Court. Brother John Bates, is not that the morning. which breaks yonder?

Bates. I think it be: but we have no great cause to defire the approach of day.

Will. We fee yonder the beginning of the day, but, I think, we fhall never fee the end of it.-Who goes there?

K. Henry.