Henry V

Dolph. Say: if my Father render faire returne, It is against my will: for I desire Nothing but Oddes with England. To that end, as matching to his Youth and Vanitie, I did present him with the Paris-Balls Exe. Hee'le make your Paris Louer shake for it, Were it the Mistresse Court of mightie Europe: And be assur'd, you'le find a diff'rence, As we his Subiects haue in wonder found, Betweene the promise of his greener dayes, And these he masters now: now he weighes Time Euen to the vtmost Graine: that you shall reade In your owne Losses, if he stay in France King. To morrow shall you know our mind at full. Flourish. Exe. Dispatch vs with all speed, least that our King Come here himselfe to question our delay; For he is footed in this Land already King. You shalbe soone dispatcht, with faire conditions. A Night is but small breathe, and little pawse, To answer matters of this consequence. Exeunt. Actus Secundus. Flourish. Enter Chorus. Thus with imagin'd wing our swift Scene flyes, In motion of no lesse celeritie then that of Thought. Suppose, that you haue seene The well-appointed King at Douer Peer, Embarke his Royaltie: and his braue Fleet, With silken Streamers, the young Phebus fayning; Play with your Fancies: and in them behold, Vpon the Hempen Tackle, Ship-boyes climbing; Heare the shrill Whistle, which doth order giue To sounds confus'd: behold the threaden Sayles, Borne with th' inuisible and creeping Wind, Draw the huge Bottomes through the furrowed Sea, Bresting the loftie Surge. O, doe but thinke You stand vpon the Riuage, and behold A Citie on th' inconstant Billowes dauncing: For so appeares this Fleet Maiesticall, Holding due course to Harflew. Follow, follow: Grapple your minds to sternage of this Nauie, And leaue your England as dead Mid-night, still, Guarded with Grandsires, Babyes, and old Women, Eyther past, or not arriu'd to pyth and puissance: For who is he, whose Chin is but enricht With one appearing Hayre, that will not follow These cull'd and choyse-drawne Caualiers to France? Worke, worke your Thoughts, and therein see a Siege: Behold the Ordenance on their Carriages, With fatall mouthes gaping on girded Harflew. Suppose th' Embassador from the French comes back: Tells Harry, That the King doth offer him Katherine his Daughter, and with her to Dowrie, Some petty and vnprofitable Dukedomes. The offer likes not: and the nimble Gunner With Lynstock now the diuellish Cannon touches, Alarum, and Chambers goe off. And downe goes all before them. Still be kind, And eech out our performance with your mind. Enter. Enter the King, Exeter, Bedford, and Gloucester. Alarum: Scaling Ladders at Harflew. King. Once more vnto the Breach, Deare friends, once more; Or close the Wall vp with our English dead: In Peace, there's nothing so becomes a man, As modest stillnesse, and humilitie: But when the blast of Warre blowes in our eares, Then imitate the action of the Tyger: Stiffen the sinewes, commune vp the blood, Disguise faire Nature with hard-fauour'd Rage: Then lend the Eye a terrible aspect: Let it pry through the portage of the Head, Like the Brasse Cannon: let the Brow o'rewhelme it, As fearefully, as doth a galled Rocke O're-hang and iutty his confounded Base, Swill'd with the wild and wastfull Ocean. Now set the Teeth, and stretch the Nosthrill wide, Hold hard the Breath, and bend vp euery Spirit To his full height. On, on, you Noblish English, Whose blood is fet from Fathers of Warre-proofe: Fathers, that like so many Alexanders, Haue in these parts from Morne till Euen fought, And sheath'd their Swords, for lack of argument. Dishonour not your Mothers: now attest, That those whom you call'd Fathers, did beget you. Be Coppy now to men of grosser blood, And teach them how to Warre. And you good Yeomen, Whose Lyms were made in England; shew vs here The mettell of your Pasture: let vs sweare, That you are worth your breeding: which I doubt not: For there is none of you so meane and base, That hath not Noble luster in your eyes. I see you stand like Grey-hounds in the slips, Straying vpon the Start. The Game's afoot: Follow your Spirit; and vpon this Charge, Cry, God for Harry, England, and S[aint]. George. Alarum, and Chambers goe off. Enter Nim, Bardolph, Pistoll, and Boy. Bard. On, on, on, on, on, to the breach, to the breach Nim. 'Pray thee Corporall stay, the Knocks are too hot: and for mine owne part, I haue not a Case of Liues: the humor of it is too hot, that is the very plaine-Song of it Pist. The plaine-Song is most iust: for humors doe abound: Knocks goe and come: Gods Vassals drop and dye: and Sword and Shield, in bloody Field, doth winne immortall fame Boy. Would I were in a Ale-house in London, I would giue all my fame for a Pot of Ale, and safetie Pist. And I: If wishes would preuayle with me, my purpose should not fayle with me; but thither would I high Boy. As duly, but not as truly, as Bird doth sing on bough. Enter Fluellen. Flu. Vp to the breach, you Dogges; auaunt you Cullions Pist. Be mercifull great Duke to men of Mould: abate thy Rage, abate thy manly Rage; abate thy Rage, great Duke. Good Bawcock bate thy Rage: vse lenitie sweet Chuck Nim. These be good humors: your Honor wins bad humors. Enter. Boy. As young as I am, I haue obseru'd these three Swashers: I am Boy to them all three, but all they three, though they would serue me, could not be Man to me; for indeed three such Antiques doe not amount to a man: for Bardolph, hee is white-liuer'd, and red-fac'd; by the meanes whereof, a faces it out, but fights not: for Pistoll, hee hath a killing Tongue, and a quiet Sword; by the meanes whereof, a breakes Words, and keepes whole Weapons: for Nim, hee hath heard, that men of few Words are the best men, and therefore hee scornes to say his Prayers, lest a should be thought a Coward: but his few bad Words are matcht with as few good Deeds; for a neuer broke any mans Head but his owne, and that was against a Post, when he was drunke. They will steale any thing, and call it Purchase. Bardolph stole a Lute-case, bore it twelue Leagues, and sold it for three halfepence. Nim and Bardolph are sworne Brothers in filching: and in Callice they stole a fire-shouell. I knew by that peece of Seruice, the men would carry Coales. They would haue me as familiar with mens Pockets, as their Gloues or their Hand-kerchers: which makes much against my Manhood, if I should take from anothers Pocket, to put into mine; for it is plaine pocketting vp of Wrongs. I must leaue them, and seeke some better Seruice: their Villany goes against my weake stomacke, and therefore I must cast it vp. Enter. Enter Gower. Gower. Captaine Fluellen, you must come presently to the Mynes; the Duke of Gloucester would speake with you Flu. To the Mynes? Tell you the Duke, it is not so good to come to the Mynes: for looke you, the Mynes is not according to the disciplines of the Warre; the concauities of it is not sufficient: for looke you, th' athuersarie, you may discusse vnto the Duke, looke you, is digt himselfe foure yard vnder the Countermines: by Cheshu, I thinke a will plowe vp all, if there is not better directions Gower. The Duke of Gloucester, to whom the Order of the Siege is giuen, is altogether directed by an Irish man, a very valiant Gentleman yfaith Welch. It is Captaine Makmorrice, is it not? Gower. I thinke it be Welch. By Cheshu he is an Asse, as in the World, I will verifie as much in his Beard: he ha's no more directions in the true disciplines of the Warres, looke you, of the Roman disciplines, then is a Puppy-dog. Enter Makmorrice, and Captaine Iamy. Gower. Here a comes, and the Scots Captaine, Captaine Iamy, with him Welch. Captaine Iamy is a maruellous falorous Gentleman, that is certain, and of great expedition and knowledge in th' aunchiant Warres, vpon my particular knowledge of his directions: by Cheshu he will maintaine his Argument as well as any Militarie man in the World, in the disciplines of the Pristine Warres of the Romans Scot. I say gudday, Captaine Fluellen Welch. Godden to your Worship, good Captaine Iames Gower. How now Captaine Mackmorrice, haue you quit the Mynes? haue the Pioners giuen o're? Irish. By Chrish Law tish ill done: the Worke ish giue ouer, the Trompet sound the Retreat. By my Hand I sweare, and my fathers Soule, the Worke ish ill done: it ish giue ouer: I would haue blowed vp the Towne, so Chrish saue me law, in an houre. O tish ill done, tish ill done: by my Hand tish ill done Welch. Captaine Mackmorrice, I beseech you now, will you voutsafe me, looke you, a few disputations with you, as partly touching or concerning the disciplines of the Warre, the Roman Warres, in the way of Argument, looke you, and friendly communication: partly to satisfie my Opinion, and partly for the satisfaction, looke you, of my Mind: as touching the direction of the Militarie discipline, that is the Point Scot. It sall be vary gud, gud feith, gud Captens bath, and I sall quit you with gud leue, as I may pick occasion: that sall I mary Irish. It is no time to discourse, so Chrish saue me: the day is hot, and the Weather, and the Warres, and the King, and the Dukes: it is no time to discourse, the Town is beseech'd: and the Trumpet call vs to the breech, and we talke, and be Chrish do nothing, tis shame for vs all: so God sa'me tis shame to stand still, it is shame by my hand: and there is Throats to be cut, and Workes to be done, and there ish nothing done, so Christ sa'me law