Henry V

In peace there’s nothing so becomes a man

And take with you free power to ratify, Augment, or alter, as your wisdoms best Shall see advantageable for our dignity, Any thing in or out of our demands, And we’ll consign thereto.

But, good Kate, mock me mercifully, the rather, gentle Princess, because I love thee cruelly. If ever thou beest mine, Kate, as I have a saving faith within me tells me thou shalt, I get thee with scambling, and thou must therefore needs prove a good soldier-breeder.

But in faith, Kate, the elder I wax, the better I shall appear. My comfort is, that old age, that ill layer-up of beauty, can do no more spoil upon my face. Thou hast me, if thou hast me, at the worst; and thou shalt wear me, if thou wear me, better and better;

Fair Katherine, and most fair, Will you vouchsafe to teach a soldier terms, Such as will enter at a lady’s ear, And plead his love-suit to her gentle heart?

God, the best maker of all marriages, Combine your hearts in one, your realms in one! As man and wife, being two, are one in love, So be there ’twixt your kingdoms such a spousal, That never may ill office, or fell jealousy,

Marry, if you would put me to verses, or to dance for your sake, Kate, why, you undid me: for the one, I have neither words nor measure; and for the other, I have no strength in measure, yet a reasonable measure in strength.

No; ’tis hereafter to know, but now to promise. Do but now promise, Kate, you will endeavor for your French part of such a boy; and for my English moi’ty, take the word of a king and a bachelor.

Thus far, with rough and all-unable pen, Our bending author hath pursu’d the story, In little room confining mighty men, Mangling by starts the full course of their glory.

What? A speaker is but a prater, a rhyme is but a ballad; a good leg will fall, a straight back will stoop, a black beard will turn white, a curl’d pate will grow bald, a fair face will wither, a full eye will wax hollow; but a good heart, Kate, is the sun and the moon, or rather the sun and not the moon; for it shines bright and never changes, but keeps his course truly.

and my speech entreats That I may know the let why gentle Peace Should not expel these inconveniences, And bless us with her former qualities.

If, Duke of Burgundy, you would the peace, Whose want gives growth to th’ imperfections Which you have cited, you must buy that peace With full accord to all our just demands,

Peace to this meeting, wherefore we are met! Unto our brother France, and to our sister, Health and fair time of day; joy and good wishes To our most fair and princely cousin Katherine;

Why that the naked, poor, and mangled Peace, Dear nurse of arts, plenties, and joyful births, Should not in this best garden of the world, Our fertile France, put up her lovely visage?

Will you mock at an ancient tradition, begun upon an honorable respect, and worn as a memorable trophy of predeceas’d valor, and dare not avouch in your deeds any of your words?

Heave him away upon your winged thoughts Athwart the sea. Behold, the English beach Pales in the flood with men, wives, and boys, Whose shouts and claps out-voice the deep-mouth’d sea,

I humbly pray them to admit th’ excuse Of time, of numbers, and due course of things, Which cannot in their huge and proper life Be here presented.

There must we bring him; and myself have play’d The interim, by rememb’ring you ’tis past. Then brook abridgment, and your eyes advance, After your thoughts, straight back again to France.

Come, go we in procession to the village; And be it death proclaimed through our host To boast of this, or take that praise from God Which is his only.

for had you been as I took you for, I made no offense; therefore I beseech your Highness pardon me.

Praised be God, and not our strength, for it! What is this castle call’d that stands hard by? MONT. They call it Agincourt. K. HEN. Then call we this the field of Agincourt, Fought on the day of Crispin Crispianus.

Some sudden mischief may arise of it; For I do know Fluellen valiant And touch’d with choler, hot as gunpowder, And quickly will return an injury.

which, your Majesty know, to this hour is an honorable badge of the service; and I do believe your Majesty takes no scorn to wear the leek upon Saint Tavy’s day.

My soul shall thine keep company to heaven; Tarry, sweet soul, for mine, then fly abreast, As in this glorious and well-foughten field We kept together in our chivalry!”

The pretty and sweet manner of it forc’d Those waters from me which I would have stopp’d, But I had not so much of man in me, And all my mother came into mine eyes And gave me up to tears.

I did never know so full a voice issue from so empty a heart; but the saying is true, “The empty vessel makes the greatest sound.”

ORL. We are enow yet living in the field To smother up the English in our throngs, If any order might be thought upon. BOUR. The devil take order now! I’ll to the throng: Let life be short, else shame will be too long.

A many of our bodies shall no doubt Find native graves; upon the which, I trust, Shall witness live in brass of this day’s work.

All things are ready, if our minds be so.

And gentlemen in England, now a-bed, Shall think themselves accurs’d they were not here; And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks That fought with us upon Saint Crispin’s day.

Farewell, kind lord; fight valiantly today! And yet I do thee wrong to mind thee of it, For thou art fram’d of the firm truth of valor.

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.

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 named, And rouse him at the name of Crispian.

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 today that sheds his blood with me Shall be my brother; be he ne’er so vile, This day shall gentle his condition;

We would not die in that man’s company That fears his fellowship to die with us.

A very little little let us do, And all is done. Then let the trumpets sound The tucket sonance and the note to mount; For our approach shall so much dare the field, That England shall crouch down in fear, and yield.

And in their pale dull mouths the gimmal’d bit Lies foul with chaw’d-grass, still and motionless; And their executors, the knavish crows, Fly o’er them all, impatient for their hour.

I stay but for my guidon; to the field! I will the banner from a trumpet take, And use it for my haste. Come, come away! The sun is high, and we outwear the day.

Mount them, and make incision in their hides, That their hot blood may spin in English eyes, And dout them with superfluous courage, ha!

And, but for ceremony, such a wretch, Winding up days with toil, and nights with sleep, Had the forehand and vantage of a king. The slave, a member of the country’s peace, Enjoys it;

I Richard’s body have interred new, And on it have bestowed more contrite tears, Than from it issued forced drops of blood.

I warrant you, you shall find the ceremonies of the wars, and the cares of it, and the forms of it, and the sobriety of it, and the modesty of it, to be otherwise.

There is some soul of goodness in things evil, Would men observingly distill it out; For our bad neighbor makes us early stirrers, Which is both healthful and good husbandry.

Twin-born with greatness, subject to the breath Of every fool whose sense no more can feel But his own wringing! What infinite heart’s ease Must kings neglect, that private men enjoy!

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.

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.

For forth he goes, and visits all his host, Bids them good morrow with a modest smile, And calls them brothers, friends, and countrymen.

Proud of their numbers and secure in soul, The confident and overlusty French Do the low-rated English play at dice;

Where—O for pity!—we shall much disgrace 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 mock’ries be.