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Did with the least affection of a welcome
Give entertainment to the might of it:
Let Heav'n for ever keep it from my head,
And make me as the poorest vassal is,
That doth with awe and terror kneel to it!

K. Henry. O my son!
Heav'n put into thy mind to take it hence,
That thou might'st win the more thy father's love,
Pleading so wisely in excuse of it.
Come hither, Harry, sit thou by my bed ;
And hear, I think, the very latest counsel
That ever I shall breathe. Heav'n knows, my son,
By what bye-paths, and indirect crook'd ways
I met this crown; and I myself know well,
How troublesome it sat upon my head.
To thee it shall descend with better quiet,
Better opinion, better confirmation:
For all the soil of the achievement goes
With me into the earth. It seem'd in me
But as an honour snatch'd with boist'rous hand,
And I had many living to upbraid
My grain of it by their assistances ;
Which daily grew to quarrel and to bloodshed,
Wounding supposed peace. All their bold feats,
Thou seest, with peril I have answer'd.
For all my reign hath been but as a scene
Acting that argument: and now my death,
Changes the mode; for what in me was purchas'd,
Falls upon thee in a much fairer sort ;
For thou the garland sear'st successively.
Yet though thou stand'st more sure than I could do,
Thou art not firm enough, since griefs are green;
And all my friends, which thou must make thy friends,
Have but their stings and teeth newly ta'en out;
By whose fell working I was first advanc'd,
And by whose power I well might lodge a fear,
To be again displac'd ; which to avoid

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I cut them off, and had a purpose now
To leed out many to the holy land;
Lest rest and lying still might make them look
Too near into my state. Therefore, my Harry,
Be it thy course to busy giddy minds
With foreign quarrels; that action, hence born out,
May waste the memory of former days.
More would I, but my lungs are wasted so,
That strength of speech is utterly deny'd me.
How I came to the crown, O God, forgive !
And grant it may with thee in true peace live!

P. Henry. My gracious Liege,
You won it, wore it, kept it, gave it me ;
Then plain and right must my possession be ;
Which I with more than with a common pain,
Gainst all the world, will rightfully maintain.


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WHAT's he that wishes for more men from England ? My cousin Westmoreland ? No, my fair cousin, If we are mark'd to die, we are enow To do our country loss ; and if to live, The fewer men, the greater share of honour. God's will ! I pray thee wish not one man more, By Jove, I am not covetous of gold ; Nor care I who doth feed upon my cost; It yearns me not if men my garments wear ; Such outward things dwell not in my desires : But if it be a sin to covet honour, I am the most offending soul alive.

No, 'faith, my Lord, wish not a man from England:
God's peace! I would not lose so great an honour,
As one man more, would share from me,
For the best hopes I have. Don't wish one more :
Rather proclaim it (Westmoreland) through my host,
'That he which hath no stomach to this sight,
Let him depart; his passport shall be made,
And crowns for convoy put into his purse :
We would not die in that man's company,
That fears his fellowship to die with us.

This day is call'd the feast of Crispian :
He that outlives this day, and comes safe home,
Will stand a tip-toe when this day is nam’d,
And rouse him at the name of Crispian:
He that outlises this day, and sees old age,
Will yearly on the vigil feast his neighbours,
And say, To-morrow is Saint Crispian :
Then will he strip his sleeve, and show his scars,
Old men forget ; yet shall not all forget,
But they'll remember, with advantages,
The feats they did that day. Then shall our names,
Familiar in their mouths as houshold-words,
Harry the King, Bedford, and Exeter,
Warwick and Talbot, Salisbury and Glo'ster,
Be in their flowing cups freshly remember'd.
This story shall the good Man teach his son;
And Crispian Crispian shall ne'er go by,
From this day to the ending of the world,
But we in it shall be remembered ;
We few, we happy few, we band of brothers :
For he to day that sheds his blood with me,
Shall be my brother; be he e'er so vile,
This day shall gentle his condition.
And gentlemen in England, now a bed,
Shall think themselves accurs'd they were not here é
And hold their manhoods cheap, while any speaks,
That fought with us upon St. Crispian's Day.





K. Henry. HOW fares my Lord ? Speak, Beaufort, to

thy Sovereign. Car. If thou be'st Death, I'll give thee England's treas

ure. Enough to purchase such another island, So thou wilt let me live, and feel no pain.

K. Henry. Ah, what a sign it is of evil life, Where death’s approach is seen so terrible !

War. Beaufort, it is thy Sovereign speaks to thee

Car. Bring me unto my trial when you will.
Dy'd he not in his bed ? Where should he ctie ?
Can I make men live whether they will or no ?
Oh, torture me no more, I will confess-
Alive again? Then show me where be is :
I'll give a thousand pound to look upon him
He hath no eyes, the dust hath blinded them :
Comb down his hair; look! look! it stands upright,
Like lime twigs set to catch my winged soul.
Give me some drink, and bid th' apothecary
Bring the strong poison that I bought of him.

K. Henry. O thou eternal Mover of the heavins,
Look with a geotle eye upon this wretch;
Oh, heat away the busy meddling fiend,
That lays streng siege unto this wretch's soul,
And from his bosom purge this black despair.
-Peace o his soul, if God's good pleasure be !
Lord Cardinal, if thou think'st on heaven's bliss,
Hold up thine hand, make signal of thy hope.
He dies, and makes no sign! O God, forgive him.

War. So bad a death argues a monstrous life.
K. Henry. Forbear to judge, for, we are sinners all.

Close up his eyes, and draw the curtain close,
And let us all to meditation.




Wol. FAREWEL, a long farewel to all my greatness ! This is the state of man: to day he puts forth The tender leaves of hope ; tc-morrow blossoms, And bears his blushing honours thick upon him; The third day comes a frost, a killing frost, And when he thinks, good easy man, full surely His greatness is a-ripening, nips his shoot ; And then he falls, as I do. I have ventur'd, Like little wanton boys, that swim on bladders, These many summers in a sea of glory; But far beyond my depth: my high blown pride At length broke under me ; and now has left me, Weary, and old with service, to the mercy Of a rude stream, that must for ever hide me. Vain pomp and glory of the world, I hate ye ! I feel my heart new open'd. Oh, how wretched Is that poor man that hangs on princes' favours ! There is, betwixt that smile he would aspire toz That sweet aspect of princes, and his ruin, More pangs and fears than war or women have ; And when he falls, he falls like Lucifer, Never to hope again. Why, how now, Cromwell ?

Crom. I have no power to speak, Sir.

Wol. What, amaz'd
At my misfortunes ? Can thy spirit wonder
A great man should decline ? Nay, if you weep,
I'm fall’n indeedo

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