Then should the warlike Harry, like himself,
Assume the port of Mars;[2] and, at his heels,
Leash’d in like hounds, should famine, sword, and fire,
Crouch for employment.([A]) But pardon, gentles all,
The flat unraised spirit that hath dar’d
On this unworthy scaffold to bring forth
So great an object: Can this cockpit hold[3]
The vasty fields of France? or may we cram
Upon this little stage[4] the very casques[5]
That did affright the air at Agincourt?