K. HEN Who hath sent thee now?
MONT. The Constable of France.
K. HEN. 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.
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.
MONT. I shall, King Harry. And so fare thee well:
Thou never shalt hear herald any more. [Exit.
K. HEN. I fear thou'lt once more come again for ransom.
Enter the DUKE OF YORK.
YORK. My lord, most humbly on my knee I beg
The leading of the vaward.
K. HEN. Take it, brave York—Now, soldiers, march away:—
And how, thou pleasest God, dispose the day!
[Exeunt.
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