ERPINGHAM

My lord, your nobles, jealous of your absence,

Seek through your camp to find you.

KING HARRY

Good old knight,

Collect them all together at my tent.

I’ll be before thee.

ERPINGHAM

I shall do’t, my lord. Exit

KING HARRY

O God of battles, steel my soldiers’ hearts.

Possess them not with fear. Take from them now

The sense of reck‘ning, ere th’opposèd numbers

Pluck their hearts from them. Not today, O Lord,

O not today, think not upon the fault

My father made in compassing the crown.

I Richard’s body have interred new,

And on it have bestowed more contrite tears

Than from it issued forced drops of blood.

Five hundred poor have I in yearly pay

Who twice a day their withered hands hold up

Toward heaven to pardon blood. And I have built

Two chantries, where the sad and solemn priests

Sing still for Richard’s soul. More will I do,

Though all that I can do is nothing worth,

Since that my penitence comes after ill,

Imploring pardon.

Enter the Duke of Gloucester

GLOUCESTER

My liege.

KING HARRY My brother Gloucester’s voice? Ay.

I know thy errand, I will go with thee.

The day, my friends, and all things stay for me.

Exeunt

4.2 Enter the Dukes of ⌈Bourbon⌉and Orléans, and Lord Rambures

ORLÉANS The sun doth gild our armour. Up, my lords!

⌈BOURBON⌉Monte cheval! My horse! Varlet, lacquais! Ha!

ORLÉANS O brave spirit!

⌈BOURBON⌉ Via les eaux et terre!

ORLÉANS Rien plus? L’air et feu!

⌈BOURBON⌉ Cieux, cousin Orléans!

Enter the Constable

Now, my Lord Constable!

CONSTABLE Hark how our steeds for present service neigh.

⌈BOURBON⌉

Mount them and make incision in their hides,

That their hot blood may spin in English eyes

And dout them with superfluous courage. Ha!

RAMBURES

What, will you have them weep our horses’ blood?

How shall we then behold their natural tears?

Enter a Messenger

MESSENGER

The English are embattled, you French peers.

CONSTABLE

To horse, you gallant princes, straight to horse!

Do but behold yon poor and starved band,

And your fair show shall suck away their souls,

Leaving them but the shells and husks of men.

There is not work enough for all our hands,

Scarce blood enough in all their sickly veins

To give each naked curtal-axe a stain

That our French gallants shall today draw out

And sheathe for lack of sport. Let us but blow on

them,

The vapour of our valour will o‘erturn them.

’Tis positive ’gainst all exceptions, lords,

That our superfluous lackeys and our peasants,

Who in unnecessary action swarm

About our squares of battle, were enough

To purge this field of such a hilding foe,

Though we upon this mountain’s basis by

Took stand for idle speculation,

But that our honours must not. What’s to say?

A very little little let us do

And all is done. Then let the trumpets sound

The tucket sonance and the note to mount,

For our approach shall so much dare the field

That England shall couch down in fear and yield.

Enter Lord Grandpré

GRANDPRÉ

Why do you stay so long, my lords of France?

Yon island carrions, desperate of their bones,

Ill-favouredly become the morning field.

Their ragged curtains poorly are let loose

And our air shakes them passing scornfully.

Big Mars seems bankrupt in their beggared host

And faintly through a rusty beaver peeps.

The horsemen sit like fixed candlesticks

With torchstaves in their hands, and their poor jades

Lob down their heads, drooping the hides and hips,

The gum down-roping from their pale dead eyes,

And in their palled dull mouths the gimmaled bit

Lies foul with chewed grass, still and motionless.

And their executors, the knavish crows,

Fly o’er them all impatient for their hour.

Description cannot suit itself in words

To demonstrate the life of such a battle

In life so lifeless as it shows itself.

CONSTABLE

They have said their prayers, and they stay for death.

⌈BOURBON⌉

Shall we go send them dinners and fresh suits

And give their fasting horses provender,

And after fight with them?

CONSTABLE

I stay but for my guidon. To the field!

I will the banner from a trumpet take

And use it for my haste. Come, come away!

The sun is high, and we outwear the day. Exeunt

4.3 Enter the Dukes of Gloucester, ⌈Clarence⌉, and Exeter, the Earls of Salisbury and ⌈Warwick⌉, and Sir Thomas Erpingham, with all ⌈the⌉ host

GLOUCESTER Where is the King?

⌈CLARENCE⌉

The King himself is rode to view their battle.

[WARWICK]

Of fighting men they have full threescore thousand.

EXETER

There’s five to one. Besides, they all are fresh.

SALISBURY

God’s arm strike with us! ‘Tis a fearful odds.

God b’wi’ you, princes all. I’ll to my charge.

If we no more meet till we meet in heaven,

Then joyfully, my noble Lord of Clarence,