THE WALLS ARE MANNED BY THE FRENCH.
THE ENGLISH ARE REPULSED FROM AN
ATTACK ON THE BREACH.
Alarums. Enter King Henry, Exeter, Bedford, Gloster, and Soldiers, R.H.
K. Hen. Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more;
Or close the wall up with our English dead![6]
In peace there’s nothing so becomes a man
As modest stillness and humility:
But when the blast of war blows in our ears,
Then imitate the action of the tiger!
On, on, you noble English,
Whose blood is fet[7] from fathers of war-proof!
And you, good yeomen,
Whose limbs were made in England, show us here
The mettle of your pasture; let us swear
That you are worth your breeding: which I doubt not;
For there is none of you so mean and base,
That hath not noble lustre in your eyes.
I see you stand like greyhounds in the slips,[8]
Straining upon the start. The game’s afoot:
Follow your spirit; and, upon this charge,
Cry—God for Harry! England! and Saint George!
The English charge upon the breach, headed by the King. Alarums. The Governor of the Town appears on the walls with a flag of truce.
K. Hen. How yet resolves the governour of the town?
This is the latest parle we will admit:
Therefore, to our best mercy give yourselves;
Or, like to men proud of destruction,
Defy us to our worst: for, as I am a soldier
(A name that, in my thoughts, becomes me best,)
If I begin the battery once again,
I will not leave the half-achieved Harfleur
Till in her ashes she lie buried.
The gates of mercy shall be all shut up.
What say you? will you yield, and this avoid?
Or, guilty in defence, be thus destroy’d?
Gov. Our expectation hath this day an end:
The Dauphin, whom of succour we entreated,[9]
Returns us—that his powers are not yet ready
To raise so great a siege. Therefore, dread king,
We yield our town and lives to thy soft mercy.
Enter our town; dispose of us and ours;
For we no longer are defensible.
Soldiers shout.
The Governor and others come from the town, and kneeling, present to King Henry the keys of the city.
K. Hen. Come, uncle Exeter, R.
Go you and enter Harfleur; there remain,
And fortify it strongly ’gainst the French:
Use mercy to them all. For us, dear uncle,—
The winter coming on, and sickness growing
Upon our soldiers,—we’ll retire to Calais.
To-night in Harfleur[*] will we be your guest;
To-morrow for the march are we addrest.[10]
March. English army enter the town through the breach.
[ ACT III.]
[ Scene I.—FRANCE. ROOM IN THE FRENCH KING’S PALACE.]
Trumpets sound.
Enter the French King, the Dauphin, Duke of Bourbon, the Constable of France, and others, L.H.
Fr. King. (C.) ’Tis certain he hath pass’d the river Somme.
Con. (R.C.) And if he be not fought withal, my lord,
Let us not live in France; let us quit all,
And give our vineyards to a barbarous people.
Dau. (R.) By faith and honour,
Our madams mock at us;
They bid us—to the English dancing-schools,
And teach lavoltas high[1] and swift corantos;[2]
Saying our grace is only in our heels,
And that we are most lofty runaways.
Fr. King. Where is Montjoy the herald? speed him hence:
Let him greet England with our sharp defiance.—
Up, princes! and, with spirit of honour edg’d
More sharper than your swords, hie to the field:
Bar Harry England, that sweeps through our land
With pennons[3] painted in the blood of Harfleur:
Go down upon him,—you have power enough,—
And in a captive chariot into Rouen
Bring him our prisoner.
Con.
This becomes the great.
Sorry am I his numbers are so few,
His soldiers sick, and famish’d in their march;
For, I am sure, when he shall see our army,
He’ll drop his heart into the sink of fear,
And, for achievement offer us his ransom.[4]
Fr. King. Therefore, lord constable, haste on Montjoy;
Constable crosses to L.
And let him say to England, that we send
To know what willing ransom he will give.—
Prince Dauphin, you shall stay with us in Rouen.
Dau. Not so, I do beseech your majesty.
Fr. King. Be patient; for you shall remain with us.—
Now, forth, lord constable (Exit Constable, L.H.), and princes all,
And quickly bring us word of England’s fall.
Exeunt L.H.
Trumpets sound.
[ Scene II.—A VIEW IN PICARDY.]
Distant Battle heard.
Enter Gower, L.U.E., meeting Fluellen, R.H.
Gow. (C.) How now, Captain Fluellen! come you from the bridge?([A])
Flu. (R.C.) I assure you, there is very excellent service committed at the pridge.
Gow. Is the Duke of Exeter safe?
Flu. The Duke of Exeter is as magnanimous as Agamemnon; and a man that I love and honour with my soul, and my heart, and my duty, and my life, and my livings, and my uttermost powers: he is not (Heaven be praised and plessed!) any hurt in the ’orld; but keeps the pridge most valiantly, with excellent discipline. There is an ensign there at the pridge,—I think in my very conscience he is as valiant as Mark Antony; and he is a man of no estimation in the ’orld; but I did see him do gallant service.
Gow. What do you call him?
Flu. He is called—ancient Pistol.[5]
Gow. I know him not.
Enter Pistol, R.H.
Flu. Do you not know him? Here comes the man.
Pist. Captain, I thee beseech to do me favours:
The Duke of Exeter doth love thee well.
Flu. Ay, I praise Heaven; and I have merited some love at his hands.
Pist. Bardolph, a soldier, firm and sound of heart,
Of buxom valour,[6] hath,—by cruel fate,
And giddy fortune’s furious fickle wheel,
That goddess blind.
That stands upon the rolling restless stone,—[7]
Flu. By your patience, ancient Pistol. Fortune is painted plind, with a muffler before her eyes,[8] to signify to you that fortune is plind; And she is painted also with a wheel, to signify to you, which is the moral of it, that she is turning, and inconstant, and variations, and mutabilities: and her foot, look you, is fixed upon a spherical stone, which rolls, and rolls, and rolls:—In good truth, the poet makes a most excellent description of fortune: fortune, look you, is an excellent moral.
Pist. Fortune is Bardolph’s foe, and frowns on him;
For he has stolen a pix,[9] and hang’d must ’a be.([B])
A damned death!
Let gallows gape for dog; let man go free,
Crosses to L.H.
But Exeter hath given the doom of death,
For pix of little price.
Therefore, go speak, the duke will hear thy voice;
And let not Bardolph’s vital thread be cut
With edge of penny cord and vile reproach:
Speak, captain, for his life, and I will thee requite.
Crosses to R.H.
Flu. Ancient Pistol, I do partly understand your meaning.
Pist. Why, then, rejoice therefore.
Flu. Certainly, ancient, it is not a thing to rejoice at: for if, look you, he were my prother, I would desire the duke to use his goot pleasure, and put him to executions; for disciplines ought to be used.
Pist. Fico for thy friendship![10]
Flu. It is well.
Pist. The fig of Spain![11]
Exit Pistol, R.H.
Flu. Very goot.
Gow. Why, this is an arrant counterfeit rascal; a cut-purse; I remember him now.
Flu. I’ll assure you, ’a utter’d as prave ’ords at the pridge as you shall see in a summer’s day.
Gow. Why, ’tis a gull, a fool, a rogue, that now and then goes to the wars, to grace himself, at his return into London, under the form of a soldier. You must learn to know such slanders of the age,[12] or else you may be marvellously mistook.
Flu. I tell you what, Captain Gower;—I do perceive, he is not the man that he would gladly make show to the ’orld he is: if I find a hole in his coat, I will tell him my mind.
March heard.
Hark you, the king is coming; and I must speak with him from the pridge.[13]
Enter King Henry, Bedford, Gloster, Westmoreland, Lords, and Soldiers, L.H.U.E.
Flu. (R.) Heaven pless your majesty!
K. Hen. (C.) How now, Fluellen! cam’st thou from the bridge?
Flu. Ay, so please your majesty. The duke of Exeter has very gallantly maintained the pridge: the French has gone off, look you; and there is gallant and most prave passages: Marry, th’athversary was have possession of the pridge; but he is enforced to retire, and the duke of Exeter is master of the pridge: I can tell your majesty, the duke is a prave man.
K. Hen. What men have you lost, Fluellen?
Flu. The perdition of th’athversary hath been very great, very reasonable great: marry, for my part, I think the duke hath lost never a man, but one that is like to be executed for robbing a church, one Bardolph, if your majesty knows the man: his face is all bubukles,[14] and whelks,[15] and knobs, and flames of fire: and his lips plows at his nose, and it is like a coal of fire, sometimes plue, and sometimes red; but his nose is executed, and his fire’s out.[16]
K. Hen. We would have all such offenders so cut off.
Trumpet sounds without, R.
Enter Montjoy and Attendants, R.H.
Mont. uncovers and kneels. You know me by my habit.[17]
K. Hen. Well, then, I know thee: What shall I know of thee?
Mont. My master’s mind.
K. Hen. Unfold it.
Mont. Thus says my king:—Say thou to Harry of England: Though we seemed dead, we did but sleep. Tell him, he shall repent his folly, see his weakness, and admire our sufferance.[18] Bid him, therefore, consider of his ransom; which must proportion the losses we have borne, the subjects we have lost, the disgrace we have digested. For our losses, his exchequer is too poor; for the effusion of our blood, the muster of his kingdom too faint a number; and for our disgrace, his own person, kneeling at our feet, but a weak and worthless satisfaction. To this add—defiance: and tell him, for conclusion, he hath betrayed his followers, whose condemnation is pronounced. So far my king and master; so much my office.
K. Hen.What is thy name? I know thy quality.
Mont. Montjoy.
K. Hen. Thou dost thy office fairly. Turn thee back,
And tell thy king,—I do not seek him now;
But could be willing to march on to Calais
Without impeachment:[19] for, to say the sooth
(Though ’tis no wisdom to confess so much
Unto an enemy of craft and vantage),
My people are with sickness much enfeebled;
My numbers lessen’d; and those few I have,
Almost no better than so many French;
Who, when they were in health, I tell thee, herald,
I thought, upon one pair of English legs,
Did march three Frenchmen.—Forgive me, Heaven,
That I do brag thus!—this your air of France
Hath blown that vice in me; I must repent.
Go, therefore, tell thy master here I am;
My ransom is this frail and worthless trunk;
My army but a weak and sickly guard:
Yet, Heaven before,[20] tell him we will come on,
Though France himself,[21] and such another neighbour,
Stand in our way. There’s for thy labour, Montjoy.
Go, bid thy master well advise himself:
If we may pass, we will; if we be hinder’d,
We shall your tawny ground with your red blood
Discolour:([C]) and so, Montjoy, fare you well.
The sum of all our answer is but this:
We would not seek a battle, as we are;
Nor, as we are, we say, we will not shun it:
So tell your master.
Mont.
I shall deliver so.
Montjoy rises from his knee.
Thanks to your highness.
Exit Montjoy with Attendants, R.H.
Glo. I hope they will not come upon us now.
K. Hen. We are in Heaven’s hand, brother, not in theirs.
March to the bridge; it now draws toward night:
Beyond the river we’ll encamp ourselves;
And on to-morrow bid them march away.
Exeunt, R.H.
March.
END OF ACT THIRD.
[ HISTORICAL NOTES TO ACT THIRD.]
([A]) Come you from the bridge?] After Henry had passed the Somme, Titus Livius asserts, that the King having been informed of a river which must be crossed, over which was a bridge, and that his progress depended in a great degree upon securing possession of it, despatched some part of his forces to defend it from any attack, or from being destroyed. They found many of the enemy ready to receive them, to whom they gave battle, and after a severe conflict, they captured the bridge, and kept it.
([B])
Fortune is Bardolph’s foe, and frowns on him;
For he hath stol’n a pix, and hanged must ’a be.
It will be seen by the following extract from the anonymous Chronicler how minutely Shakespeare has adhered to history— “There was brought to the King in that plain a certain English robber, who, contrary to the laws of God and the Royal Proclamation, had stolen from a church a pix of copper gilt, found in his sleeve, which he happened to mistake for gold, in which the Lord’s body was kept; and in the next village where he passed the night, by decree of the King, he was put to death on the gallows.” Titus Livius relates that Henry commanded his army to halt until the sacrilege was expiated. He first caused the pix to be restored to the Church, and the offender was then led, bound as a thief, through the army, and afterwards hung upon a tree, that every man might behold him.
([C])
Go, bid thy master well advise himself:
If we may pass, we will; if we be hinder’d,
We shall your tawny ground with your red blood
Discolour:]
My desire is, that none of you be so unadvised, as to be the occasion that I in my defence shall colour and make red your tawny ground with the effusion of Christian blood. When he (Henry) had thus answered the Herald, he gave him a great reward, and licensed him to depart. —Holinshed.
[ Enter Chorus.]
Cho. 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,[1]
That the fix’d sentinels almost receive
The secret whispers of each other’s watch:[2]
Fire answers fire;[3] and through their paly flames
Each battle sees the other’s umber’d face:[4]
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.
Proud of their numbers, and secure in soul,
The confident and over-lusty[5] French
Do the low-rated English play at dice;[6]
And chide the cripple tardy-gaited night,
Who, like a foul and ugly witch, doth limp
So tediously away.
Scene opens and discovers the interior of a French tent, with the Dauphin, the Constable, Orleans, and others, playing at dice.
Dau. Will it never be day?
Con. I would it were morning; for I would fain be about the ears of the English.
Dau. Who will go to hazard with me for twenty English prisoners?
Orl. The prince longs to eat the English.
Con. Would it were day! Alas, poor Harry of England! he longs not for the dawning, as we do.
Dau. If the English had any apprehension, they would run away.
Con. That island of England breeds very valiant creatures; their mastiffs are of unmatchable courage.
Dau. 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: 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?
Dau. It is now two o’clock: but, let me see,—by ten We shall have each a hundred Englishmen.
SCENE CLOSES IN.
Cho. The poor condemned English,
Like sacrifices, by their watchful fires
Sit patiently, and inly ruminate
The morning’s danger; and their gestures sad,
Investing lank-lean cheeks, and war-worn coats,
Presenteth them unto the gazing moon
So many horrid ghosts.
Scene re-opens, discovering the English camp, with group of soldiery praying. After a pause the scene closes.
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:
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;
The field of Agincourt. Yet, sit and see;
Minding true things[7] by what their mockeries be.
Exit.
[ ACT IV.]
[ Scene I.—THE ENGLISH CAMP AT AGINCOURT.]([A]) NIGHT.
Enter King Henry and Gloster, U.E.L.H.
K. Hen. Gloster, ’tis true that we are in great danger;
The greater therefore should our courage be.
Enter Bedford, R.H.
Good morrow, brother Bedford.—Gracious Heaven!
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.
Thus may we gather honey from the weed,
And make a moral of the devil himself.
Enter Erpingham.([B]) L.H.
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. 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, R.H.
Erp. Shall I attend your grace?
K. Hen.
No, my good knight;
Go with my brothers to my lords of England:
Erpingham crosses to R.
I and my bosom must debate a while,
And then I would no other company.
Erp. Heaven bless thee, noble Harry!
Exit Erpingham, R.H.
K. Hen. Gad-a-mercy, old heart! thou speakest cheerfully.
Enter Pistol, L.H.
Pist. Qui va là?
K. Hen. A friend.
Pist. Discuss unto me; Art thou officer?
Or art thou base, common, and popular?[1]
K. Hen. I am a gentleman of a company.
Pist. Trail’st thou the puissant pike?
K. Hen. Even so. What are you?
Pist. As good a gentleman as the emperor.
K. Hen. Then you are a better than the king.[2]
Pist. The king’s a bawcock,[3] and a heart of gold,
A lad of life, an imp of fame;[4]
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 Roi.
Pist. Le Roi! 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.
Crosses to R.
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: Heaven be with you!
Pist. My name is Pistol call’d.
Exit, R.H.
K. Hen. It sorts[5] well with your fierceness.
Enter Fluellen, L.H., and crosses to R., and Gower, U.E.R.H., following hastily.
Gow. Captain Fluellen!
Flu. (R.C.) So! in the name of Heaven, speak lower.[6] It is the greatest admiration in the universal ’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 shall find, I warrant you, that there is no tiddle taddle, or pibble pabble in Pompey’s camp.
Gow. (L.C.) Why, the enemy is loud; you heard him all night.
Flu. If the enemy is an ass, and a fool, and a prating coxcomb, is it meet, think you, that we should also, look you, be an ass, and a fool, and a prating coxcomb, in your own conscience, now?
Gow. I will speak lower.
Flu. I pray you, and beseech you, that you will.
Exeunt Gower and Fluellen, R.H.
K. Hen. Though it appear a little out of fashion, there is much care and valour in this Welshman.
Enter Bates and Williams, L.H.
Will. Brother John Bates, is not that the morning which breaks yonder?
Bates. I think it be: but we have no great cause to desire the approach of day.
Will. We see yonder the beginning of the day, but, I think, we shall never see the end of it.—Who goes there?
K. Hen. A friend.
Comes down, R.
Will. Under what captain serve you?
K. Hen. Under Sir Thomas Erpingham.
Will. A good old commander, and a most kind gentleman: I pray you, what thinks he of our estate?
K. Hen. Even as men wrecked upon a sand, that look to be washed off the next tide.
Bates. (L.) He hath not told his thought to the king?
K. Hen. No; nor it is not meet he should. Crosses to centre. For, though I speak it to you, I think the king is but a man, as I am: the violet smells to him as it doth to me; the element shows to him as it doth to me; all his senses have but human conditions:[7] therefore when he sees reason of fears, as we do, his fears, out of doubt, be of the same relish as ours are: Yet, in reason, no man should possess him with any appearance of fear, lest he, by showing it, should dishearten his army.
Bates. He may show what outward courage he will; but I believe, as cold a night as ’tis, he could wish himself in the Thames up to the neck; and so I would he were, and I by him, at all adventures, so we were quit here.
K. Hen. (C.) By my troth, I will speak my conscience of the king: I think he would not wish himself any where but where he is.
Bates. (L.) Then ’would he were here alone; so should he be sure to be ransomed, and a many poor men’s lives saved.
K. Hen. I dare say you love him not so ill, to wish him here alone, howsoever you speak this, to feel other men’s minds: Methinks I could not die any where so contented as in the king’s company; his cause being just, and his quarrel honourable.[8]
Will. (R.) That’s more than we know.
Bates. Ay, or more than we should seek after; for we know enough, if we know we are the king’s subjects: if his cause be wrong, our obedience to the king wipes the crime of it out of us.
Will. But if the cause be not good, the king himself hath a heavy rekoning to make, when all those legs and arms and heads, chopped off in battle, shall join together at the latter day,[9] and cry all—We died at such place; some swearing; some crying for a surgeon; some, upon their wives left poor behind them; some, upon the debts they owe; some, upon their children rawly left.[10] I am afeard there are few die well that die in battle; for how can they charitably dispose of any thing, when blood is their argument? Now, if these men do not die well, it will be a black matter for the king that led them to it; whom to disobey were against all proportion of subjection.
K. Hen. So, if a son, that is by his father sent about merchandise, do sinfully miscarry upon the sea, the imputation of his wickedness, by your rule, should be imposed upon his father that sent him:—But this is not so: the king is not bound to answer the particular endings of his soldiers, nor the father of his son, for they purpose not their death, when they purpose their services. Every subject’s duty is the king’s; but every subject’s soul is his own. Therefore should every soldier in the wars do as every sick man in his bed, wash every mote out of his conscience: and dying so, death is to him advantage; or not dying, the time was blessedly lost wherein such preparation was gained.
Will. ’Tis certain, every man that dies ill, the ill is upon his own head; the king is not to answer for it.
Bates. I do not desire he should answer for me; and yet I determine to fight lustily for him.
K. Hen. I myself heard the king say he would not be ransomed.
Will. Ay, he said so, to make us fight cheerfully: but, when our throats are cut, he may be ransomed, and we ne’er the wiser.
K. Hen. If I live to see it, I will never trust his word after.
Will. That’s a perilous shot out of an elder gun, that a poor and private displeasure can do against a monarch! you may as well go about to turn the sun to ice with fanning in his face with a peacock’s feather. You’ll never trust his word after! come, ’tis a foolish saying.
K. Hen. Your reproof is something too round:[11] I should be angry with you, if the time were convenient.
Will. Let it be a quarrel between us, if you live.
K. Hen. I embrace it.
Will. How shall I know thee again?
K. Hen. Give me any gage of thine, and I will wear it in my bonnet: then, if ever thou darest acknowledge it, I will make it my quarrel.
Will. Here’s my glove: give me another of thine.
K. Hen. There.
Will. This will I also wear in my cap: if ever thou come to me and say, after to-morrow. This is my glove, by this hand, I will take thee a box on the ear.
K. Hen. If ever I live to see it, I will challenge it.
Will. Thou darest as well be hanged.
K. Hen. Well, I will do it, though I take thee in the king’s company.
Will. Keep thy word: fare thee well.
Bates. Be friends, you English fools, be friends: (Crosses to Williams, R.) we have French quarrels enough, if you could tell how to reckon.
Exeunt Soldiers, R.H.
K. Hen. Upon the king! let us our lives, our souls,
Our sins, lay on the king!—we must bear all.
O hard condition, twin-born with greatness,
Subjected to the breath of every fool.
What infinite heart’s ease must king’s neglect,
That private men enjoy!
And what have kings, that privates have not too,
Save ceremony, save general ceremony?
And what art thou, thou idol ceremony?
Art thou aught else but place, degree, and form,
Creating awe and fear in other men?
Wherein thou art less happy being fear’d
Than they in fearing.
What drink’st thou oft, instead of homage sweet,
But poison’d flattery? O, be sick, great greatness,
And bid thy ceremony give thee cure!
Canst thou, when thou command’st the beggar’s knee,
Command the health of it? No, thou proud dream,
That play’st so subtly with a king’s repose:
I am a king that find thee; and I know,
’Tis not the balm, the sceptre, and the ball,
The sword, the mace, the crown imperial,
The throne he sits on, nor the tide of pomp
That beats upon the high shore of this world,
No, not all these, thrice-gorgeous ceremony,
Not all these, laid in bed majestical,
Can sleep so soundly as the wretched slave,
Who, with a body fill’d and vacant mind,
Gets him to rest, cramm’d with distressful bread;
And but for ceremony, such a wretch,
Winding up days with toil and nights with sleep,
Had the fore-hand and vantage of a king.
Enter Erpingham, R.H.
Erp. My lord, your nobles, jealous of your absence,
Seek through your camp to find you.
K. Hen.
Good old knight,
Collect them all together at my tent:
I’ll be before thee.
Gives back the Cloak to Erpingham.
Erp.
I shall do’t, my lord.
Exit, R.H.
K. Hen. O God of battles! steel my soldier’s hearts;
Possess them not with fear; take from them now
The sense of reckoning, lest the opposed numbers
Pluck their hearts from them!—Not to-day, O Lord,
O, not to-day, think not upon the fault
My father made in compassing the crown!
I Richard’s body have interred new;([C])
And on it have bestow’d more contrite tears,
Than from it issu’d forced drops of blood:
Five hundred poor I have in yearly pay,
Who twice a day their wither’d hands hold up
Toward heaven, to pardon blood:
More will I do—
Trumpet sounds without, R.
The day, my friends, and all things stay for me.
Exit, R.H.
[ Scene II.—THE FRENCH CAMP—SUNRISE.]
Flourish of trumpets.
Enter Dauphin, Grandprè, Rambures,[12] and Others.
Dau. The sun doth gild our armour; up, my lords!
My horse! varlet! lacquay! ha!
Servants exeunt hastily.
Grand. O brave spirit!
Dau. Cousin Orleans.—
Enter Constable, L.H.
Now, my lord Constable!
Con. Hark, how our steeds for present service neigh!
Dau. Mount them, and make incision in their hides,
That their hot blood may spin in English eyes,
And dout them[13] with superfluous courage, Ha!
Con. What, will you have them weep our horses’ blood?
How shall we, then, behold their natural tears?
Enter Montjoy, R.H.
Mont. The English are embattled, you French peers.
Exit R.H.
Con. To horse, you gallant princes! straight to horse!
Do but behold yon poor and starved band.
There is not work enough for all our hands;
Scarce blood enough in all their sickly veins,
To give each naked curtle-ax a stain.
’Tis positive ’gainst all exceptions, lords,
That our superfluous lackeys, are enough
To purge this field of such a hilding foe.[14]
A very little little let us do,
And all is done. Then let the trumpets sound:
For our approach shall so much dare the field,
That England shall couch down in fear, and yield.
Enter Orleans,([D]) hastily, R.H.
Orl. Why do you stay so long, my lords of France?
Yon island carrions,[15] desperate of their bones,
Ill-favour’dly become the morning field:
Their ragged curtains poorly are let loose,[16]
And our air shakes them passing scornfully:
Big Mars seems bankrupt in their beggar’d host,
And their executors, the knavish crows,
Fly o’er them, all impatient for their hour.
Description cannot suit itself in words
To demonstrate the life of such a battle
In life so lifeless as it shows itself.
Dau. Shall we go send them dinners and fresh suits,
And give their fasting horses provender,
And after fight with them?
Con.
On, to the field!
Come, come, away!
The sun is high, and we outwear the day.
Exeunt, R.H.
Flourish of trumpets.
[ Scene III.—THE ENGLISH POSITION AT AGINCOURT.]
The English Army drawn up for battle;([E]) Gloster, Bedford, Exeter, Salisbury, Erpingham, and Westmoreland.
Glo. (R.C.) Where is the king?
Bed. (L.C.) The king himself is rode to view their battle.[17]
West. (L.) Of fighting men they have full threescore thousand.
Exe. (L.C.) There’s five to one; besides, they all are fresh.
Erp. It is fearful odds.
If we no more meet till we meet in heaven,
Then, joyfully,—my noble lord of Bedford,—
Crosses to L.
My dear lord Gloster,—and my good lord Exeter,—
Warriors all, adieu!
Crosses back to R.
West. O that we now had here
But one ten thousand of those men in England
That do no work to-day!([F])
Enter King Henry, attended.([G]) U.E.L.H.
K. Hen. (C.)
What’s he that wishes so?
My cousin Westmoreland?—No, my fair cousin:
If we are mark’d to die, we are enough
To do our country loss; and if to live,
The fewer men, the greater share of honour.
I pray thee, wish not one man more.
Rather proclaim it, Westmoreland, through my host,
That he who 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:([H])
He, that outlives this day, and comes safe home,
Will stand a tip-toe when this day is nam’d,
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 friends,[18]
And say—to-morrow is Saint Crispian:
Then will he strip his sleeve and show his scars,
And say, those wounds I had on Crispin’s day.
Old men forget; yet all shall be forgot,
But he’ll remember with advantages[19]
What feats he did that day: Then shall our names,
Familiar in their mouths as household words,—
Harry the King, Bedford and Exeter,
Warwick and Talbot, Salisbury and Gloster,—([I])
Be in their flowing cups freshly remember’d.
This story shall the good man teach his son;
And Crispin Crispian shall ne’er go by,
From this day to the ending[20] 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:[21]
And gentlemen in England, now a-bed,
Shall think themselves accurs’d they were not here;
And hold their manhoods cheap while any speaks
That fought with us upon Saint Crispin’s day.
Enter Gower, hastily, U.E.L.H.
Gow. (R.C.) My sovereign lord, bestow yourself with speed:
The French are bravely in their battles set,[22]
And will with all expedience charge on us.
K. Hen. (C.) All things are ready, if our minds be so.
West. Perish the man whose mind is backward now!
K. Hen. Thou dost not wish more help from England, cousin?
West. (L.) Would you and I alone, my liege,
Without more help, might fight this battle out!
Trumpet sounds without, L.H.
Enter Montjoy, and attendants, U.E.L.H.
Mont. uncovers and kneels. Once more I come to know of thee, King Harry,
If for thy ransom thou wilt now compound,
Before thy most assured overthrow.
K. Hen. (C.) Who hath sent thee now?
Mont.
The Constable of France.
K. Hen. I pray thee, bear my former answer back:
Bid them achieve me,[23] and then sell my bones.
Good Heaven! 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.
Let me speak proudly:—Tell the Constable,
We are but warriors for the working-day:[24]
Our gayness and our guilt[25] are all besmirch’d
With rainy marching in the painful field,
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.
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 to them,
Shall yield them little, tell the Constable.
Mont. I shall, King Harry. Rises from his knee. And so, fare thee well:
Thou never shalt hear herald any more.
Exit with Attendants, U.E.L.H.
K. Hen. Now, soldiers, march away:—
And how thou pleasest, Heaven, dispose the day!([K])
Trumpet March.
Exeunt L.H.
[ Scene IV.—ANOTHER PART OF THE FIELD OF BATTLE.]
Alarums. Enter Dauphin, Orleans, Bourbon, Constable, Rambures, and Others, hastily, and in confusion, L.H.
Dau. (C.) All is confounded, all!
Reproach and everlasting shame
Sits mocking in our plumes.
Alarums, L.
Con.
Why, all our ranks are broke.
Dau. O perdurable shame![26]—let’s stab ourselves.
Be these the wretches that we play’d at dice for?
Orl. (L.C.) Is this the king we sent to for his ransom?
Dau. Shame, and eternal shame, nothing but shame!
Let us die in honor: Once more back again.
Con. (C.) Disorder, that hath spoil’d us, friend us now!
Let us in heaps go offer up our lives
Unto these English, or else die with fame.
Dau. (R.C.) We are enough, yet living in the field,
To smother up the English in our throngs,
If any order might be thought upon.
Con. The devil take order now! I’ll to the throng:
Let life be short; else shame will be too long.
Alarums.
Exeunt L.H.
[ Scene V.—THE FIELD OF AGINCOURT AFTER THE BATTLE.]
The bodies of the Duke of York([L]) and Earl of Suffolk are borne across the stage by soldiers.
Trumpets sound.
Enter King Henry with a part of the English forces; Warwick, Bedford, Gloster, Exeter, and others, L.H.
K. Hen. (C.) I was not angry since I came to France,
Until this instant.—Take a trumpet, herald;
Ride thou unto the horsemen on yon hill:([M])
If they will fight with us, bid them come down,
Or void the field;[27] they do offend our sight:
If they’ll do neither, we will come to them;
And make them skirr away, as swift as stones
Enforced from the old Assyrian slings.
Go, and tell them so.
Exit Herald with Trumpeter, R.H.
Exe. The Duke of York commends him to your majesty.
K. Hen. Lives he, good uncle? thrice within this hour,
I saw him down; thrice up again and fighting;
From helmet to the spur, all blood he was.
Exe. In which array, (brave soldier), did he lie,
Larding the plain; and by his bloody side,
(Yoke fellow to his honour-owing wounds),
The noble Earl of Suffolk also lay.
Suffolk first died: and York, all haggled over,
Comes to him, where in gore he lay insteep’d,
And takes him by the hand; kisses the gashes,
That bloodily did yarn upon his face;
And cries aloud:—Tarry, dear cousin Suffolk!
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 keep together in our chivalry!
Upon these words I came, and cheer’d him up:
He smil’d me in the face, raught me his hand,[28]
And with a feeble gripe, says,—Dear, my lord,
Commend my service to my sovereign.
So did he turn, and over Suffolk’s neck
He threw his wounded arm, and kiss’d his lips;
And so espous’d to death, with blood he seal’d
A testament of noble-ending love.
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,
But all my mother came into mine eyes,
And gave me up to tears.
Re-enter English Herald and Trumpeter, R.H.
K. Hen.
I blame you not:
For, hearing this, I must perforce compound
With mistful eyes, or they will issue too.
Trumpet without, R.
Exe. Here comes the herald of the French, my liege.
Glo. His eyes are humbler than they us’d to be.
Enter Montjoy,([N]) and attendants, R.H. Montjoy uncovers and kneels.
K. Hen. How now! what means this, herald?
Com’st thou again for ransom?
Mont.
No, great king:
I come to thee for charitable licence,
That we may wander o’er this bloody field
To book our dead, and then to bury them;
To sort our nobles from our common men,
For many of our princes (woe the while!)
Lie drown’d and soak’d in mercenary blood;
(So do our vulgar drench their peasant limbs
In blood of princes;) and their wounded steeds
Fret fetlock deep in gore, and, with wild rage
Yerk out their armed heels at their dead masters,
Killing them twice. O, give us leave, great king,
To view the field in safety, and dispose
Of their dead bodies!
K. Hen.
I tell thee truly, herald,
I know not if the day be ours or no;
For yet a many of your horsemen peer
And gallop o’er the field.
Mont.
The day is yours.
K. Hen. Praised be Heaven, 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.
Loud flourish of Trumpets, and shouts of the soldiers. Montjoy rises from his knee, and stands R.
Flu. (L.) Your grandfather of famous memory, an’t please your majesty, and your great uncle Edward the plack prince of Wales, as I have read in the chronicles, fought a most prave pattle here in France.
K. Hen. (C.) They did, Fluellen.
Flu. Your majesty says very true: if your majesties is remembered of it, the Welshman did goot service in a garden where leeks did grow, wearing leeks in their Monmouth caps;[29] which, your majesty knows, to this hour is an honourable padge of the service; and I do believe, your majesty takes no scorn to wear the leek upon Saint Tavy’s day.
K. Hen. I wear it for a memorable honour;
For I am Welsh, you know, good countryman.
Flu. All the water in Wye cannot wash your majesty’s Welsh plood out of your pody, I can tell you that: Heaven pless it, and preserve it, as long as it pleases his grace, and his majesty too!
K. Hen. Thanks, good my countryman.
Flu. I am your majesty’s countryman, I care not who know it: I will confess it to all the ’orld: I need not to be ashamed of your majesty, praised be Heaven, so long as your majesty is an honest man.
K. Hen. Heaven keep me so!—Our herald go with him:
Bring me just notice of the numbers dead
On both our parts.—
Exeunt Montjoy and attendants, with English Herald, R.H.
Call yonder fellow hither.
Points to Williams, who is standing in the ranks up the stage, L.
Exe. Soldier, you must come to the king.
K. Hen. (C.) Soldier, why wear’st thou that glove in thy cap?
Will. kneels R. An’t please your majesty, ’tis the gage of one that I should fight withal, if he be alive.
Rises from his knee.
K. Hen. An Englishman?
Will. An’t please your majesty, a rascal that swaggered with me last night; who, if ’a live, and ever dare to challenge this glove, I have sworn to take him a box o’ the ear: or, if I can see my glove in his cap (which he swore, as he was a soldier, he would wear, if alive,) I will strike it out soundly.
K. Hen. What think you, Captain Fluellen? is it fit this soldier keep his oath?
Flu. (L.) He is a craven and a villain else, an’t please your majesty, in my conscience.
K. Hen. It may be his enemy is a gentleman of great sort,[30] quite from the answer of his degree.[31]
Flu. Though he be as goot a gentleman as the tevil is, as Lucifer and Belzebub himself, it is necessary, look your grace, that he keep his vow and his oath.
K. Hen. Then keep thy vow, sirrah, when thou meet’st the fellow.
Will. So I will, my liege, as I live.
K. Hen. Who servest thou under?
Will. Under Captain Gower, my liege.
Flu. Gower is a goot captain, and is good knowledge and literature in the wars.
K. Hen. Call him hither to me, soldier.
Will. I will, my liege.
Exit, R.H.
K. Hen. Here, Fluellen; wear thou this favour for me, and stick it in thy cap: When Alençon and myself were down together,([O]) I plucked this glove from his helm: if any man challenge this, he is a friend to Alençon and an enemy to our person; if thou encounter any such, apprehend him, an thou dost love me.
Flu. Your grace does me as great honours as can be desired in the hearts of his subjects: I would fain see the man, that has but two legs, that shall find himself aggriefed at this glove, that is all.
K. Hen. Knowest thou Gower?
Flu. He is my dear friend, an please you.
K. Hen. Pray thee, go seek him, and bring him to my tent.
Flu. (L.) I will fetch him.
Crosses to R., and exit R.H.
K. Hen. (L.C.) My lord of Warwick,—and my brother Gloster,
Both advance to the King.
Follow Fluellen closely at the heels:
The glove which I have given him for a favour
May haply purchase him a box o’ the ear;
It is the soldier’s; I, by bargain, should
Wear it myself. Follow, good cousin Warwick:
Warwick crosses to R.
If that the soldier strike him (as, I judge,
By his blunt bearing, he will keep his word,)
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:
Follow, Gloster crosses to R. and see there be no harm between them.—
Warwick and Gloster exeunt R.H.
Go you with me, Uncle of Exeter.
Exeunt Omnes, L.H.
Trumpets sound.
[ Scene VI.—BEFORE KING HENRY’S PAVILION.]
Enter Gower and Williams, R.H.
Will. I warrant it is to knight you, captain.
Enter Fluellen, R.H.
Flu. Heaven’s will and pleasure, captain, I peseech you now, come apace to the king: there is more goot toward you peradventure than is in your knowledge to dream of.
Will. Sir, know you this glove?
Flu. (C.) Know the glove! I know, the glove is a glove.
Will. (R.C.) I know this; and thus I challenge it.
Strikes him.
Flu. ’Sblud, an arrant traitor as any’s in the universal ’orld, or in France, or in England!
Gow. (L.C.) How now, sir! you villain!
Will. Do you think I’ll be forsworn?
Flu. Stand away, Captain Gower; I will give treason his payment in plows, I warrant you.
Will. I am no traitor.
Flu. That’s a lie in thy throat.—I charge you in his majesty’s name, apprehend him: he’s a friend of the duke Alençon’s.
Enter Warwick and Gloster,([P]) R.H.
Glos. crosses to C. How now, how now! what’s the matter?
Flu. My lord of Gloster, here is (praised be Heaven for it!) a most contagious treason come to light, look you, as you shall desire in a summer’s day. Here is his majesty.
Enter King Henry, Exeter, and others, U.E.L.H.
K. Hen. coming down centre. How now! what’s the matter?
Flu. (L.H.) My liege, here is a villain and a traitor, that, look your grace, has struck the glove which your majesty is take out of the helmet of Alençon.
Will. (R.C.) My liege, this was my glove; here is the fellow of it; and he that I gave it to in change promised to wear it in his cap: I promised to strike him, if he did: I met this man with my glove in his cap, and I have been as good as my word.
Flu. Your majesty hear now (saving your majesty’s manhood) what an arrant, rascally, beggarly, lowsy knave it is: I hope, your majesty is pear me testimony, and witness, and avouchments, that this is the glove of Alençon, that your majesty is give me, in your conscience, now.
K. Hen. Give me thy glove, soldier: Look, here is the fellow of it. ’Twas I, indeed, thou promised’st to strike; and thou hast given me most bitter terms.
Williams falls on his knee.
Flu. An please your majesty, let his neck answer for it, if there is any martial law in the ’orld.
K. Hen. How can’st thou make me satisfaction?
Will. All offences, my liege, come from the heart: never came any from mine, that might offend your majesty.
K. Hen. It was ourself thou didst abuse.
Will. Your majesty came not like yourself: you appeared to me but as a common man; witness the night, your garments, your lowliness; and what your highness suffered under that shape, I beseech you, take it for your own fault, and not mine: for had you been as I took you for, I made no offence; therefore, I beseech your highness, pardon me.
K. Hen. Here, uncle Exeter, fill this glove with crowns,
And give it to this fellow.—(Williams rises.) Keep it, fellow;
And wear it for an honour in thy cap
Till I do challenge it.—Give him the crowns:—
And, captain, you must needs be friends with him.
The King goes up the stage with Exeter, Bedford, and Gloster.
Flu. By this day and this light, the fellow has mettle enough in his pelly.—Hold, there is twelve pence for you; and I pray you to serve Heaven, and keep you out of prawls, and prabbles, and quarrels, and dissensions, and, I warrant you, it is the petter for you.
Will. I will none of your money.
Flu. It is with a goot will; I can tell you, it will serve you to mend your shoes: Come, wherefore should you be so pashful? your shoes is not so goot: ’tis a goot silling, I warrant you, or I will change it.
Exit Williams, R.H.
Enter English Herald, R.H.
K. Hen. coming down C. Now, herald, are the dead number’d?
Herald uncovers, kneels, and delivers papers. The King gives one paper to Exeter.
K. Hen. (C.) What prisoners of good sort are taken, uncle?
Exe. (L.C.) Charles duke of Orleans, nephew to the king;
John duke of Bourbon, and lord Bouciqualt:
Of other lords and barons, knights and ’squires,
Full fifteen hundred, besides common men.
K. Hen. (C.) This note doth tell me of ten thousand French
That in the field lie slain: of princes, in this number,
And nobles bearing banners, there lie dead
One hundred twenty-six: added to these,
Of knights, esquires, and gallant gentlemen,
Eight thousand and four hundred; of the which,
Five hundred were but yesterday dubb’d knights:[32]
So that, in these ten thousand they have lost,
There are but sixteen hundred mercenaries:[33]
The rest are—princes, barons, lords, knights, ’squires,
And gentlemen of blood and quality.
Here was a royal fellowship of death!——([Q])
What is the number of our English dead?
Exe. (L.C.) Edward the duke of York, the earl of Suffolk,
Sir Richard Ketley, Davy Gam, esquire:
None else of name; and of all other men
But five and twenty.
K. Hen. O Heaven, thy arm was here;
And not to us, but to thy arm alone,
Ascribe we all! When, without stratagem,
But in plain shock and even play of battle,
Was ever known so great and little loss
On one part and on the other?—Take it, Heaven,
For it is only thine!
Returns papers to Herald, who rises and stands L.
Exe.
’Tis wonderful!
K. Hen. 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 Heaven
Which is his only.
Flu. (R.C.) Is it not lawful, and please your majesty, to tell how many is killed?
K. Hen. up the stage C. Yes, captain; but with this acknowledgment,
That Heaven fought for us.
Flu. Yes, my conscience, he did us great goot.
K. Hen. Do we all holy rites:([R])
The curtains of the Royal Pavilion are drawn aside, and discover an Altar and Priests.
Let there be sung Non nobis and Te Deum;
The dead with charity enclos’d in clay:
We’ll then to Calais; and to England then;
Where ne’er from France arriv’d more happy men.
Organ music; all kneel, and join in Song of Thanksgiving.
END OF ACT FOUR.
[ HISTORICAL NOTES TO ACT FOURTH.]
([A]) The English Camp at Agincourt.] The French were about a quarter of a mile from them at Agincourt and Ruisseauville, and both armies proceeded to light their fires, and to make the usual arrangements for a bivouack. The night was very rainy, and much inconvenience is said to have been experienced in each camp from wet and cold, accompanied, among the English, by hunger and fatigue. It was passed in a manner strictly consistent with their relative situations. The French, confident in their numbers, occupied the hours not appropriated to sleep in calculating upon their success; and in full security of a complete victory, played at dice with each other for the disposal of their prisoners, an archer being valued at a blank, and the more important persons in proportion; whilst the English were engaged in preparing their weapons, and in the most solemn acts of religion.***The Chronicler in the text states, that from the great stillness which prevailed throughout the English camp, the enemy imagined they were panic-struck, and intended to decamp. Monstrelet relates that the English “were much fatigued and oppressed by cold, hunger, and other annoyances; that they made their peace with God, by confessing their sins with tears, and numbers of them taking the sacrament; for, as it was related by some prisoners, they looked for certain death on the morrow.”
([B]) Enter Erpingham.] Sir Thomas Erpingham came over with Bolingbroke from Bretagne, and was one of the commissioners to receive King Richard’s abdication. In Henry the Fifth’s time Sir Thomas was warden of Dover Castle, and at the battle of Agincourt, was commander of the Archers. This venerable knight is described by Monstrelet to have grown grey with age and honour; and when orders were given for the English army to march toward the enemy, by Henry crying aloud, “Advance banners,” Sir Thomas threw his truncheon in the air as a signal to the whole field, exclaiming, “Now strike;” and loud and repeated shouts testified the readiness with which they obeyed the command.
([C]) I Richard’s body have interred new;] Henry was anxious not only to repair his own misconduct, but also to make amends for those iniquities into which policy or the necessity of affairs had betrayed his father. He expressed the deepest sorrow for the fate of the unhappy Richard, did justice to the memory of that unfortunate prince, even performed his funeral obsequies with pomp and solemnity, and cherished all those who had distinguished themselves by their loyalty and attachment towards him. —Hume’s History of England.
([D]) Enter Orleans.] Charles Duke of Orleans was wounded and taken prisoner at Agincourt. Henry refused all ransom for him, and he remained in captivity twenty-three years.
This prince was a celebrated poet, and some of his most beautiful verses were composed during his confinement in the Tower of London. He married Isabella of Valois, daughter of Charles VI. and Isabeau of Bavaria, eldest sister to the Princess Katharine, Queen of Henry V.
Isabella was the widow of our Richard the Second when she married the Duke of Orleans.
After the victory of Agincourt, the following anecdote is related by Remy:— “During their journey to Calais, at a place where they rested, Henry caused bread and wine to be brought to him, which he sent to the Duke of Orleans; but the French Prince would neither eat nor drink. This being reported to the King, he imagined that it arose from dissatisfaction, and, therefore, went to the duke. ‘Noble cousin,’ said Henry, ‘how are you?’ ‘Well, my lord,’ answered the duke. ‘Why, then, is it,’ added the King, ‘that you will neither eat nor drink?’ To which Orleans replied, ‘that truly he had no inclination for food.’ ‘Noble cousin,’ rejoined Henry, ‘be of good heart. I know that God gave me the victory over the French, not that I deserved it, but I fully believe that he wished to punish them; and if what I have heard is true, it is not to be wondered at, for never were there greater disorder, sensuality, sins, and vices seen than now prevail in France; which it is horrible to hear described; and if God is provoked, it is not a subject of surprise, and no one can be astonished.’ Many more conversations are said to have passed between the King and the Duke of Orleans, and the commisseration and courtesy of the former to his prisoners is mentioned by every writer in terms of just praise.”
([E]) The English army, drawn up for battle;] The victory gained at Agincourt, in the year 1415, is, in a great measure, ascribed to the English Archers, and that there might be no want of arrows, Henry V. ordered the sheriffs of several counties to procure feathers from the wings of geese, plucking six from each goose. An archer of this time was clad in a cuirass, or a hauberk of chain-mail, with a salade on his head, which was a kind of bacinet. Every man had a good bow, a sheaf of arrows, and a sword. Fabian describes the archer’s dress at the battle of Agincourt. “The yeomen had their limbs at liberty, for their hose was fastened with one point, and their jackets were easy to shoot in, so that they might draw bows of great strength, and shoot arrows a yard long.” Some are described as without hats or caps, others with caps of boiled leather, or wicker work, crossed over with iron; some without shoes, and all in a very dilapidated condition. Each bore on his shoulder a long stake, sharpened at both extremities, which he was instructed to fix obliquely before him in the ground, and thus oppose a rampart of pikes to the charge of the French Cavalry.
([F])
O that we now had here
But one ten thousand of those men in England
That do no work to day!]
A certain lord Walter Hungerford, knight, was regretting in the king’s presence that he had not, in addition to the small retinue which he had there, ten thousand of the best English Archers, who would be desirous of being with him; when the King said, Thou speaketh foolishly, for, by the God of Heaven, on whose grace I have relied, and in whom I have a firm hope of victory, I would not, even if I could, increase my number by one; for those whom I have are the people of God, whom He thinks me worthy to have at this time. Dost thou not believe the Almighty, with these his humble few, is able to conquer the haughty opposition of the French, who pride themselves on their numbers, and their own strength, as if it might be said they would do as they liked? And in my opinion, God, of his true justice, would not bring any disaster upon one of so great confidence, as neither fell out to Judas Maccabeus until he became distrustful, and thence deservedly fell into ruin. —Nicolas’s History of Agincourt.
([G]) Enter King Henry, attended.] Henry rose with the earliest dawn, and immediately heard three masses. He was habited in his “cote d’armes,” containing the arms of France and England quarterly, and wore on his bacinet a very rich crown of gold and jewels, circled like an imperial crown, that is, arched over. The earliest instance of an arched crown worn by an English monarch. —Vide Planché’s History of British Costume.
King Henry had at Agincourt for his person five banners; that is, the banner of the Trinity, the banner of St. George, the banner of St. Edward, the banner of St. Edmund, and the banner of his own arms. “When the King of England had drawn up his order of battle he made a fine address to his troops, exhorting them to act well; saying, that he was come into France to recover his lawful inheritance, and that he had good and just cause to claim it; that in that quarrel they might freely and surely fight; that they should remember that they were born in the kingdom where their fathers and mothers, wives and children, now dwelt, and therefore they ought to strive to return there with great glory and fame; that the kings of England, his predecessors, had gained many noble battles and successes over the French; that on that day every one should endeavour to preserve his own person and the honor of the crown of the King of England. He moreover reminded them that the French boasted they would cut off three fingers from the right hand of every archer they should take, so that their shot should never again kill man nor horse. The army cried out loudly, saying, ‘Sir, we pray God give you a good life, and the victory over your enemies.’” —Nicolas’s History of Agincourt.
The banner of the Oriflamme is said to have been unfurled by the French for the last time at Agincourt.
([H]) The feast of Crispian.] The battle of Agincourt was fought upon the 25th of October, 1415, St. Crispin’s day. The legend upon which this is founded, is as follows:— “Crispinus and Crispianus were brethren, born at Rome; from whence they travelled to Soissons in France, about the year 303, to propagate the Christian religion; but because they would not be chargeable to others for their maintenance, they exercised the trade of shoemakers; but the Governor of the town, discovering them to be Christians, ordered them to be beheaded about the year 303. From which time, the shoemakers made choice of them for their tutelar saints.” —See Hall’s Chronicle.
([I]) Bedford and Exeter, Warwick and Talbot, Salisbury and Gloster.] Although Shakespeare has adhered very closely to history in many parts of Henry V., he has deviated very much from it in the Dramatis Personæ. He makes the Duke of Bedford accompany Henry to Harfleur and Agincourt when he was Regent of England. The Earl of Exeter, or, more properly speaking, the Earl of Dorset, was left to command Harfleur; the Earl of Westmoreland, so far from quitting England, was appointed to defend the marches of Scotland, nor does it appear that the Earl of Salisbury was either at Harfleur or Agincourt. The Earl of Warwick[*] had returned to England ill from Harfleur. The characters introduced in the play who really were at Agincourt, are the Dukes of Gloucester and York, and Sir Thomas Erpingham.
Holinshed states that the English army consisted of 15,000, and the French of 60,000 horse and 40,000 infantry—in all, 100,000. Walsingham and Harding represent the English as but 9,000, and other authors say that the number of French amounted to 150,000. Fabian says the French were 40,000, and the English only 7,000. The battle lasted only three hours.
([K]) How thou pleasest, Heaven, dispose the day.] At the battle of Agincourt, having chosen a convenient spot on which to martial his men, the king sent privately two hundred archers into a low meadow, which was on one of his flanks, where they were so well secured by a deep ditch and a marsh, that the enemy could not come near them. Then he divided his infantry into three squadrons, or battles; the van-warde, or avant-guard, composed entirely of archers; the middle-warde, of bill-men only; and the rerewarde, of bill-men and archers mixed together; the horse-men, as wings, went on the flanks of each of the battles. He also caused stakes to be made of wood about five or six feet long, headed with sharp iron; these were fixed in the ground, and the archers so placed before them that they were entirely hid from the sight of the enemy. When, therefore, the heavy cavalry of the French charged, which was done with the utmost impetuosity, under the idea of cutting down and riding over the archers, they shrunk at once behind the stakes, and the Frenchmen, unable to stop their horses, rode full upon them, so that they overthrew their riders, and caused the utmost confusion. The infantry, who were to follow up and support this charge, were so struck with amazement that they hesitated, and by this were lost, for during the panic the English archers threw back their bows, and with axes, bills, glaives, and swords, slew the French, till they met the middle-warde. The king himself, according to Speed, rode in the main battle completely armed, his shield quartering the achievements of France and England; upon his helm he wore a coronet encircled with pearls and precious stones, and after the victory, although it had been cut and bruised, he would not suffer it to be ostentatiously exhibited to the people, but ordered all his men to give the glory to God alone. His horse was one of fierce courage, and had a bridle and furniture of goldsmiths’ work, and the caparisons were most richly embroidered with the victorious ensigns of the English monarchy. Thus is he represented on his great seal, with the substitution of a knights’ cap, and the crest, for the chaplet. Elmham’s account, from which this is amplified, is more particular in some of the details; he relates, that the king appeared on a palfrey, followed by a train of led horses, ornamented with the most gorgeous trappings; his helmet was of polished steel, surmounted with a coronet sparkling with jewels, and on his surcoat, or rather jupon, were emblazoned the arms of France and England, azure, three fleurs-de-lis or, and gules, three lion’s passant guardant or. The nobles, in like manner, were decorated with their proper armorial bearings. Before him was borne the royal standard, which was ornamented with gold and splendid colours. An account of the memorable battle of Azincourt, or Agincourt, fought on the 25th of October, 1415, is thus related by Mr. Turner:— “At dawn the King of England had matins and the mass chaunted in his army. He stationed all the horses and baggage in the village, under such small guard as he could spare, having resolved to fight the battle on foot. He sagaciously perceived that his only chance of victory rested in the superiority of the personal fortitude and activity of his countrymen, and to bring them face to face, and arm to arm, with their opponents, was the simple object of his tactical dispositions. He formed his troops into three divisions, with two wings. The centre, in which he stationed himself, he planted to act against the main body of the French, and he placed the right and left divisions, with their wings, at a small distance only from himself. He so chose his ground that the village protected his rear, and hedges and briars defended his flanks. Determined to shun no danger, but to be a conspicuous example to his troops on a day when no individual exertions could be spared, he put on a neat and shining armour, with a large and brilliant helmet, and on this he placed a crown, radiant with its jewels, and he put over him a tunic adorned with the arms of France and England. He mounted his horse, and proceeded to address his troops. The French were commanded by the Constable of France, and with him were the Dukes of Orleans, Burgundy, Berry, and Alençon, the Marshal and Admiral of France, and a great assemblage of French nobility. Their force was divided into three great battalions, and continued formed till ten o’clock, not advancing to the attack. They were so numerous as to be able to draw up thirty deep, the English but four. A thousand speared horsemen skirmished from each of the horns of the enemy’s line, and it appeared crowded with balistae for the projection of stones of all sizes on Henry’s little army. Henry sent a part of his force behind the village of Agincourt, where the French had placed no men at arms. He moved from the rear of his army, unperceived, two hundred archers, to hide themselves in a meadow on the flank of the French advanced line. An old and experienced knight, Sir Thomas Erpingham, formed the rest into battle array for an attack, putting the archers in front, and the men at arms behind. The archers had each a sharp stake pointed at both ends, to use against the French horse. Sir Thomas having completed his formation, threw up his truncheon in the air, and dismounted. The English began the attack, which the French had awaited, not choosing to give the advantage as at Poictiers; but when they saw them advance, they put themselves in motion, and their cavalry charged; these were destroyed by the English archers. The French, frightened by the effect of the arrows, bent their heads to prevent them from entering the vizors of their helmets, and, pressing forward, became so wedged together as to be unable to strike. The archers threw back their bows, and, grasping their swords, battle-axes, and other weapons, cut their way to the second line. At this period the ambushed archers rushed out, and poured their impetuous and irresistable arrows into the centre of the assailed force, which fell in like manner with the first line. In short, every part successively gave way, and the English had only to kill and take prisoners.”
([L]) The Duke of York commanded the van guard of the English army, and was slain in the battle.
This personage is the same who appears in Shakespeare’s play of King Richard the Second by the title of Duke of Aumerle. His Christian name was Edward. He was the eldest son of Edmund Langley, Duke of York, who is introduced in the same play, and who was the fifth son of King Edward III. Richard, Earl of Cambridge, who appears in the second act of this play, was younger brother to this Edward, Duke of York.
([M]) Ride thou unto the horsemen on yon hill:] After the battle, “there were small bodies of the French on different parts of the plain, but they were soon routed, slain, or taken.”
([N]) Enter Montjoy.] He (the king) asked Montjoye to whom the victory belonged, to him or to the King of France? Montjoye replied that the victory was his, and could not be claimed by the King of France. The king said to the French and English heralds, “It is not we who have made this great slaughter, but the omnipotent God, as we believe, for a punishment of the sins of the French. The king then asked the name of the castle he saw near him. He was told it was Agincourt. Well, then, said he, since all battles should bear the name of the fortress nearest to the spot where they were fought, this battle shall from henceforth bear the ever durable name of Agincourt.” —Nicolas’s History of Agincourt.
([O]) When Alençon and myself were down together.] During the battle, the Duke of Alençon most valiantly broke through the English line, and advanced, fighting, near to the king, insomuch that he wounded and struck down the Duke of York. King Henry, seeing this, stepped forth to his aid, and as he was leaning down to raise him, the Duke of Alençon gave him a blow on the helmet that struck off part of his crown. The king’s guard on this surrounded him, when, seeing he could no way escape death but by surrendering, he lifted up his arm, and said to the king, “I am the Duke of Alençon, and yield myself to you;” but as the king was holding out his hand to receive his pledge, he was put to death by the guards. —Nicolas’s History of Agincourt.
([P]) Enter Warwick and Gloster.] The noble Duke of Gloucester, the king’s brother, pushing himself too vigorously on his horse into the conflict, was grievously wounded, and cast down to the earth by the blows of the French, for whose protection the king being interested, he bravely leapt against his enemies in defence of his brother, defended him with his own body, and plucked and guarded him from the raging malice of the enemy’s, sustaining perils of war scarcely possible to be borne. —Nicolas’s History of Agincourt.
([Q]) Here was a royal fellowship of death!—] There is not much difficulty in forming a correct estimate of the numbers of the French slain at Agincourt, for if those writers who only state that from three to five thousand were killed, merely meant the men-at-arms and persons of superior rank, and which is exceedingly probable, we may at once adopt the calculation of Monstrelet, Elmham, &c., and estimate the whole loss on the field at from ten to eleven thousand men. It is worthy of remark how very nearly the different statements on the subject approach to each other, and which can only be explained by the fact that the dead had been carefully numbered.
Among the most illustrious persons slain were the Dukes of Brabant, Barré, and Alençon, five counts, and a still greater proportion of distinguished knights; and the Duke of Orleans, the Count of Vendôsme, who was taken by Sir John Cornwall, the Marshall Bouciqualt, and numerous other individuals of distinction, whose names are minutely recorded by Monstrelet, were made prisoners. The loss of the English army has been variously estimated. The discrepancies respecting the number slain on the part of the victors, form a striking contrast to the accuracy of the account of the loss of their enemies. The English writers vary in their statements from seventeen to one hundred, whilst the French chroniclers assert that from three hundred to sixteen hundred individuals fell on that occasion. St. Remy and Monstrelet assert that sixteen hundred were slain. —Nicolas’s History of Agincourt.
([R]) Do we all holy rites:] Holinshed says, that when the king saw no appearance of enemies, he caused the retreat to be blown, and gathering his army together, gave thanks to Almighty God for so happy a victory, causing his prelates and chaplains to sing this psalm—In exitu Israel de Egypto; and commanding every man to kneel down on the ground at this verse—Non nobis domine, non nobis, sed nomini tuo da gloriam; which, done, he caused Te Deum and certain anthems to be sung, giving laud and praise to God, and not boasting of his own force, or any human power.
[ Enter Chorus.]
Chor. Vouchsafe to those that have not read the story,
That I may prompt them.
Now we bear the king
Towards Calais: grant him there; there seen,
Heave him away upon your winged thoughts
Athwart the sea. Behold, the English beach
Pales in the flood with men, with wives, and boys,
Whose shouts and claps out-voice the deep-mouth’d sea,
Which, like a mighty whiffler[1] ’fore the king
Seems to prepare his way: so let him land;
And solemnly, see him set on to London.
So swift a pace hath thought, that even now
You may imagine him upon Blackheath.
How London doth pour out her citizens!
The mayor, and all his brethren, in best sort,—
Like to the senators of the antique Rome,
With the plebeians swarming at their heels,—
Go forth, and fetch their conquering Cæsar in.
Now in London place him. There must we bring him;
Show the occurrences, whatever chanc’d,
Till Harry’s back-return again to France.
Exit.