READ STUDY GUIDE: Act IV, scenes iii–v |
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Act IV, Scene iii:
The English camp.
The English camp.
| [Enter Gloucester, Bedford, Exeter, Erpingham, with all his host:Salisbury and Westmoreland.] |
| GLOUCESTER: |
| Where is the King? |
| BEDFORD: |
| The King himself is rode to view their battle. |
| WESTMORELAND: |
| Of fighting men they have full three-score thousand. |
| EXETER: |
| There's five to one; besides, they all are fresh. |
| SALISBURY: |
| God's arm strike with us! 'tis a fearful odds. |
| God be wi' you, princes all; I'll to my charge. |
| If we no more meet till we meet in heaven, |
| Then, joyfully, my noble Lord of Bedford, |
| My dear Lord Gloucester, and my good Lord Exeter, |
| And my kind kinsman, warriors all, adieu! |
| BEDFORD: |
| Farewell, good Salisbury, and good luck go with thee! |
| EXETER: |
| Farewell, kind lord; fight valiantly to-day! |
| And yet I do thee wrong to mind thee of it, |
| For thou art fram'd of the firm truth of valour. |
| [Exit Salisbury.] |
| BEDFORD: |
| He is as full of valour as of kindness, |
| Princely in both. |
| [Enter the King.] |
| WESTMORELAND: |
| O that we now had here |
| But one ten thousand of those men in England |
| That do no work to-day! |
| KING: |
| What's he that wishes so? |
| 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 for 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 coz, 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 hope I have. O, do not 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 tip-toe when this day is named, |
| And rouse him at the name of Crispian. |
| He that shall live this day, and see 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, |
| And say, "These wounds I had on Crispian's day." |
| Old men forget; yet all shall be forgot, |
| But he'll remember with advantages |
| What feats he did that day. Then shall our names, |
| Familiar in his mouth as household words, |
| Harry the King, Bedford, and Exeter, |
| Warwick and Talbot, Salisbury and Gloucester, |
| Be in their flowing cups freshly rememb'red. |
| 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 ne'er so vile, |
| This day shall gentle his condition; |
| 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. |
| [Re-enter Salisbury.] |
| SALISBURY: |
| My sovereign lord, bestow yourself with speed. |
| The French are bravely in their battles set, |
| And will with all expedience charge on us. |
| KING HENRY: |
| All things are ready, if our minds be so. |
| WESTMORELAND: |
| Perish the man whose mind is backward now! |
| KING HENRY: |
| Thou dost not wish more help from England, coz? |
| WESTMORELAND: |
| God's will! my liege, would you and I alone, |
| Without more help, could fight this royal battle! |
| KING HENRY: |
| Why, now thou hast unwish'd five thousand men, |
| Which likes me better than to wish us one. |
| You know your places. God be with you all! |
| [Tucket. Enter Montjoy.] |
| MONTJOY: |
| Once more I come to know of thee, King Harry, |
| If for thy ransom thou wilt now compound, |
| Before thy most assured overthrow; |
| For certainly thou art so near the gulf, |
| Thou needs must be englutted. Besides, in mercy, |
| The Constable desires thee thou wilt mind |
| Thy followers of repentance; that their souls |
| May make a peaceful and a sweet retire |
| From off these fields, where, wretches, their poor bodies |
| Must lie and fester. |
| KING HENRY: |
| Who hath sent thee now? |
| MONTJOY: |
| The Constable of France. |
| KING HENRY: |
| I pray thee, bear my former answer back: |
| Bid them achieve me and then sell my bones. |
| Good God! why should they mock poor fellows thus? |
| The man that once did sell the lion's skin |
| While the beast liv'd, was kill'd with hunting him. |
| 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; |
| And those that leave their valiant bones in France, |
| Dying like men, though buried in your dunghills, |
| They shall be fam'd; for there the sun shall greet them, |
| And draw their honours reeking up to heaven; |
| Leaving their earthly parts to choke your clime, |
| The smell whereof shall breed a plague in France. |
| Mark then abounding valour in our English, |
| That being dead, like to the bullet's grazing, |
| Break out into a second course of mischief, |
| Killing in relapse of mortality. |
| Let me speak proudly: tell the Constable |
| We are but warriors for the working-day. |
| Our gayness and our gilt are all besmirch'd |
| With rainy marching in the painful field; |
| There's not a piece of feather in our host— |
| Good argument, I hope, we will not fly— |
| And time hath worn us into slovenry; |
| But, by the mass, our hearts are in the trim; |
| And my poor soldiers tell me, yet ere night |
| They'll be in fresher robes, or they will pluck |
| The gay new coats o'er the French soldiers' heads |
| And turn them out of service. If they do this— |
| As, if God please, they shall,—my ransom then |
| Will soon be levied. Herald, save thou thy labour. |
| Come thou no more for ransom, gentle herald. |
| They shall have none, I swear, but these my joints; |
| Which if they have as I will leave 'em them, |
| Shall yield them little, tell the Constable. |
| MONTJOY: |
| I shall, King Harry. And so fare thee well; |
| Thou never shalt hear herald any more. |
| [Exit.] |
| KING HENRY: |
| I fear thou'lt once more come again for ransom. |
| [Enter York.] |
| YORK: |
| My lord, most humbly on my knee I beg |
| The leading of the vaward. |
| KING HENRY: |
| Take it, brave York. Now, soldiers, march away; |
| And how thou pleasest, God, dispose the day! |
| [Exeunt.] |
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