The Complete Works of William Shakespeare · William Shakespeare
SCENE III. The English camp.
Enter Gloucester, Bedford, Exeter, Erpingham, with all his host: Salisbury and Westmorland. GLOUCESTER. Where is the King? BEDFORD. The King himself is rode to view their battle. WESTMORLAND. Of fighting men they have full three-score thousand. EXETER. There’s five to one; besides, they all are fresh. SALISBURY. God’s arm strike with us! ’tis a fearful odds. God be 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 Bedford, My dear Lord Gloucester, and my good Lord Exeter, And my kind kinsman, warriors all, adieu! BEDFORD. 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 fram’d of the firm truth of valour. [_Exit Salisbury._] BEDFORD. He is as full of valour as of kindness, Princely in both. Enter the King. WESTMORLAND. O that we now had here But one ten thousand of those men in England That do no work today!
KING. What’s he that wishes so? My cousin Westmorland? No, my fair cousin. If we are mark’d 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 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 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, Westmorland, 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 call’d the feast of Crispian.
He that outlives this day, and comes safe home, Will stand a tip-toe when this day is named, And rouse him at the name of Crispian. He that shall live this day, and see 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 Crispian’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 accurs’d they were not here, And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks That fought with us upon Saint Crispin’s day. Enter 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 HENRY. All things are ready, if our minds be so. WESTMORLAND. Perish the man whose mind is backward now! KING HENRY. Thou dost not wish more help from England, coz? WESTMORLAND. God’s will! my liege, would you and I alone, Without more help, could fight this royal battle! KING HENRY. Why, now thou hast unwish’d 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 HENRY. Who hath sent thee now? MONTJOY. The Constable of France.
Text from Project Gutenberg, public domain in the United States.