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.