11. In the evenynge, the frenche kynge, who had lefte about hym no more than a threscore persons, one and other, whereof Sir John of Heynalt was one, who had remounted ones the kynge, for his horse was slayne with an arowe, thā sayde to the kynge, sir, departe hense, for it is tyme, lese not yourselfe wylfully, if ye have losse at this tyme, ye shall recover it agaynt another season, and soo he took the kynge's horse by the brydell, and ledde hym away in a maner perforce; than the kyng rode tyll he came to the castell of Broy. The gate was closed, because it was by that tyme darke; than the kynge called the captayne, who came to the walles, and sayd, Who is that calleth there this tyme of night? than the kynge sayde, open your gate quickly, for this is the fortune of Fraunce; the captayne knewe than it was the kyng, and opyned the gate, and let downe the bridge; than the kyng entred, and he had with hym but fyve baronnes, Sir Johan of Heynault, Sir Charles of Monmorency, the lorde of Beaureive, the lorde Dobegny, and the lorde of Mountfort; the kynge wolde not tary there, but drāke and departed thense about mydnyght, and so rode by suche guydes as knewe the country, tyll he came in the mornynge to Anyeuse, and then he rested. This saturday the englysshmen never departed for their batayls for chasynge of any man, but kept styll their felde, and ever defended themselfe agaynst all such as came to assayle them; the batayle ended about evynsonge tyme.
XLVI.—THE BATTLE OF AGINCOURT.
1. Fair stood the wind for France
When we our sails advance,
Nor now to prove our chance
Longer will tarry;
But, putting to the main,
At Kaux, the mouth of Seine,
With all his martial train,
Landed King Harry.
2. And taking many a fort,
Furnish'd in warlike sort,
March'd toward Agincourt
In happy hour;
Skirmishing day by day
With those that stop'd the way,
Where the French gen'ral lay
With all his power.
3. Which in his height of pride,
King Henry to deride,
His ransom to provide
To the king sending;
Which he neglects the while,
As from a nation vile,
Yet with an angry smile,
Their fall portending.
4. And turning to his men,
Quoth our brave Henry then,
Though they be one to ten,
Be not amazed.
Yet, have we well begun,
Battles so bravely won
Have ever to the sun
By fame been raised.
5. And for myself, quoth he,
This my full rest shall be,
England ne'er mourn for me,
Nor more esteem me.
Victor I will remain,
Or on this earth lie slain,
Never shall she sustain
Loss to redeem me.
6. Poictiers and Cressy tell,
When most their pride did swell,
Under our swords they fell,
No less our skill is,
Than when our grandsire great,
Claiming the regal seat,
By many a warlike feat,
Lop'd the French lilies.