Henry V Page #7

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rawly left.

I'm afeared

there are few die well...

that die in a battle...

for how can they charitably

dispose of anything...

when blood is their argument?

Now if these men

do not die well,

it will be a black matter for

the king that led them to it.

So if a son that is by his father

sent about merchandise...

do sinfully miscarry

upon the sea,

the imputation of

his wickedness, by your rule,

should be imposed upon

the father that sent him?

But this is not so.

The king is not bound to answer the

particular endings of his soldiers...

nor the father of his son,

for they purpose not their deaths

when they purpose their services.

Besides, there is no king,

be his cause never so spotless,

can try it out with

all unspotted soldiers.

Every subject's duty

is the king's,

but every subject's soul

is his own.

'Tis certain.

Eevery man that dies ill,

the ill upon his own head.

The king is not to answer it.

I do not desire

he should answer for me.

Yet I determine

to fight lustily for him.

I myself heard the king say

he would not be ransomed.

Aye, he said so

to make us fight cheerfully.

But when our throats are cut, he may

be ransomed, and we ne'er the wiser.

If I live to see it,

I'll never trust his word after.

You pay him then!

You'll never trust

his word after?

Come. 'tis a foolish saying.

Your reproof

is something too round.

I should be angry with you

if time were convenient.

Let it be a quarrel between us,

if you live!

Be friends,

you English fools! Be friends!

We have French quarrels enough!

Upon the king.

Let us our lives,

our souls, our debts,

our careful wives,

our children...

and our sins lay on the king.

We must bear all.

Oh, hard condition.

Twin-born with greatness,

subject to the breath

of every fool.

What infinite heart's ease

must kings neglect...

that private men enjoy?

And what have kings

that privates have not too...

save ceremony?

And what art thou,

thou idle ceremony?

What drinks thou oft instead of

homage sweet but poison flattery?

Oh, be sick, great greatness,

and bid thy ceremony give thee cure.

Canst thou, when thou

commandest the beggar's knee,

command the health of it?

No, thou proud dream,

that playest so subtly

with a king's repose.

I am a king that find thee,

and I know...

'tis not the balm,

the scepter and the ball,

the sword, the mace,

the crown imperial,

the intertissued robe

of gold and pearl,

the farced title

running fore the king,

the throne he sits on...

nor the tide of pomp...

that beats upon the high shore

of this world.

No, not all these,

thrice-gorgeous ceremony,

not all these,

laid in bed majestical,

can sleep so soundly...

as the wretched slave,

Who, with a body filled and

vacant mind, gets him to rest,

crammed with

distressful bread,

never sees horrid night,

the child of hell,

but like a lackey,

from the rise to the set...

sweats in the eye

of Phoebus...

and all night sleeps...

in Elysium.

Next day after dawn, doth rise

and help Hyperion to his horse...

and follows so

the ever-running year...

with profitable labor

to his grave.

And but for ceremony...

such a wretch,

winding up days of toil...

and nights with sleep...

had the forehand

and vantage...

of a king.

My lord, your nobles,

jealous of your absence,

seek through the camp

to find you.

Good old knight,

Collect them all together

at my tent.

I'll be before thee.

O God of battles,

steel my soldiers' hearts.

Possess them not with fear.

Take from them now

their sense of reckoning...

if the opposed numbers

pluck their hearts from them.

Not today, o God,

oh, not today.

Think not upon the fault my

father made encompassing 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

I have 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 my penitence comes,

after all,

imploring pardon.

My liege!

My brother Gloucester's voice.

I know thy errand.

I will go with thee.

The day, my friends,

and all things...

stay...

for me.

Hark how our steeds

for present service neigh.

Mount them and make incision

in their hides...

that their hot blood

may spin in English eyes.

Do but behold

yon poor and starved band.

Your fair show shall

suck away their souls,

leaving them but

the shales and husks of men.

There is not work enough

for all our hands.

Why do you stay so long,

my lords of france?

Yon island carrions, desperate of their

bones, ill-favoredly become the morning field.

They have said their prayers,

and they stay for death.

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 will

so much dare the field...

that England shall crouch down

in fear... and yield!

Where is the king?

The king himself has rode

to view their battle.

Of fighting men,

they have full threescore thousand.

That's five to one.

Besides, they are all fresh.

'Tis a fearful odds.

Oh, that we now had here but one ten

thousand of those men in England...

That do no work today.

What's he that wishes so?

My cousin Westmoreland?

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 honor.

God's will, I pray thee,

wish not one man more.

Rather, proclaim it,

Westmoreland, 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 at tiptoe

when this day is named...

and rouse him

at the name of Crispian.

He that shall see this day

and live old age...

will yearly, on the vigil,

feast his neighbors...

and say, "tomorrow

is Saint Crispin's."

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 their mouths 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

a good man teach his son.

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.

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