My dear Lord Gloucester, and my good Lord Exeter,

And (to Warwick) my kind kinsman, warriors all,

adieu.

⌈CLARENCE⌉

Farewell, good Salisbury, and good luck go with thee.

EXETER

Farewell, kind lord. Fight valiantly today—

And yet I do thee wrong to mind thee of it,

For thou art framed of the firm truth of valour.

Exit Salisbury

⌈CLARENCE⌉

He is as full of valour as of kindness,

Princely in both.

Enter King Harry, behind

⌈WARWICK⌉

O that we now had here

But one ten thousand of those men in England

That do no work today.

KING HARRY What’s he that wishes so?

My cousin Warwick? No, my fair cousin.

If we are marked to die, we are enough

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 for gold,

Nor care I who doth feed upon my cost;

It ernes 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 coz, wish not a man from England.

God’s peace, I would not lose so great an honour

As one man more methinks would share from me

For the best hope I have. O do not wish one more.

Rather proclaim it presently through my host

That he which hath no stomach to this fight,

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 called the Feast of Crispian.

He that outlives this day and comes safe home

Will stand a-tiptoe when this day is named

And rouse him at the name of Crispian.

He that shall see this day and live t‘old age

Will yearly on the vigil feast his neighbours

And say, ’Tomorrow is Saint Crispian.’

Then will he strip his sleeve and show his scars

And say, ’These wounds I had on Crispin’s day.’

Old men forget; yet all shall be forgot,

But he’ll remember, with advantages,

What feats he did that day. Then shall our names,

Familiar in his mouth as household words—

Harry the King, Bedford and Exeter,

Warwick and Talbot, Salisbury and Gloucester—

Be in their flowing cups freshly remembered.

This story shall the good man teach his son,

And Crispin 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 today that sheds his blood with me

Shall be my brother; be he ne’er so vile,

This day shall gentle his condition.

And gentlemen in England now abed

Shall think themselves accursed they were not here,

And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks

That fought with us upon Saint Crispin’s day.

Enter the Earl of Salisbury

SALISBURY

My sovereign lord, bestow yourself with speed.

The French are bravely in their battles set

And will with all expedience charge on us.

KING HARRY

All things are ready if our minds be so.

⌈WARWICK⌉ Perish the man whose mind is backward now.

KING HARRY

Thou dost not wish more help from England, coz?

⌈WARWICK⌉

God’s will, my liege, would you and I alone,

Without more help, could fight this royal battle.

KING HARRY

Why now thou hast unwished five thousand men,

Which likes me better than to wish us one.—

You know your places. God be with you all.

Tucket. Enter Montjoy

MONTJOY

Once more I come to know of thee, King Harry,

If for thy ransom thou wilt now compound

Before thy most assured overthrow.

For certainly thou art so near the gulf

Thou needs must be englutted. Besides, in mercy

The Constable desires thee thou wilt mind

Thy followers of repentance, that their souls

May make a peaceful and a sweet retire

From off these fields where, wretches, their poor

bodies

Must lie and fester.

KING HARRY Who hath sent thee now?

MONTJOY The Constable of France.

KING HARRY

I pray thee bear my former answer back.

Bid them achieve me, and then sell my bones.

Good God, why should they mock poor fellows thus?

The man that once did sell the lion’s skin

While the beast lived, was killed with hunting him. 95

A many of our bodies shall no doubt

Find native graves, upon the which, I trust,

Shall witness live in brass of this day’s work.

And those that leave their valiant bones in France,

Dying like men, though buried in your dunghills

They shall be famed. For there the sun shall greet

them

And draw their honours reeking up to heaven,

Leaving their earthly parts to choke your clime,