K. Hen. How canst 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 appear'd to me but as a common man; witness the night, your garments, your lowliness; and what your highness suffer'd 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.-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.

Flu. By this day and this light, the fellow has mettle enough in his pelly:-Hold, there is twelvepence for you, and I pray you to serve Got, 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.

Enter an English Herald.

K. Hen. Now, herald; are the dead number'd? Her. Here is the number of the slaughter'd French. [Delivers a paper.

K. Hen. What prisoners of good sort are taken,

uncle?

Exe. Charles duke of Orleans's, 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. 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:

So that, in these ten thousand they have lost,
There are but sixteen hundred mercenaries;
The rest are-princes, barons, lords, knights, 'squires,
And gentlemen of blood and quality.

The names of those their nobles that lie dead,—
Charles De-la-bret, high constable of France;
Jaques of Chatillon, admiral of France;

The master of the cross-bows, lord Rambures;

Great master of France, the brave sir Guischard Dauphin;

John Duke of Alençon; Antony duke of Brabant, The brother to the duke of Burgundy;

And Edward duke of Bar: of lusty earls,

Grandpré, and Roussi, Fauconberg, and Foix, Beaumont, and Marle, Vaudemont, and Lestrale. Here was a royal fellowship of death!

Where is the number of our English dead?

[Herald presents another paper. Edward the duke of York, the earl of Suffolk,

Sir Richard Ketly, Davy Gam, esquire:
None else of name; and, of all other men,
But five and twenty. O God, 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, God,
For it is only thine!

K. Hen. Come, go we in procession to the village:

And be it death proclaim'd through our host,

To boast of this, or take that praise from God,
Which is his only.

Flu. Is it not lawful, an please your majesty, to

tell how many is kill'd?

K. Hen. Yes, captain; but with this acknowledgment,

That God fought for us.

Flu. Yes, my conscience, he did us great goot.
K. Hen. Do we all holy rites;

Let there be sung Non nobis, and Te Deum 66.
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.

[Exeunt.

ACT V.

Enter CHORUS.

Chor. Vouchsafe to those that have not read the

story,

That I may prompt them; and of such as have,
I humbly pray them to admit the excuse

Of time, of numbers, and due course of things,
Which cannot in their huge and proper life
Be here presented. Now we bear the king
Toward 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 67 '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:
Where that his lords desire him, to have borne
His bruised helmet, and his bended sword,
Before him, through the city: he forbids it,
Being free from vainness and self-glorious pride;
Giving full trophy, signal, and ostent,
Quite from himself, to God. But now behold,
In the quick forge and workinghouse of thought,