SCENE I. The English camp at Agincourt.
[Enter King Henry, Bedford, and Gloucester.]
Gloucester, 'tis true that we are in great danger;
The greater therefore should our courage be.
Good morrow, brother Bedford. God Almighty!
There is some soul of goodness in things evil,
Would men observingly distil it out;
For our bad neighbour makes us early stirrers,
Which is both healthful and good husbandry.
Besides, they are our outward consciences,
And preachers to us all, admonishing
That we should dress us fairly for our end.
Thus may we gather honey from the weed,
And make a moral of the devil himself.
Good morrow, old Sir Thomas Erpingham:
A good soft pillow for that good white head
Were better than a churlish turf of France.
Not so, my liege; this lodging likes me better,
Since I may say, "Now lie I like a king."
'Tis good for men to love their present pains
Upon example; so the spirit is eased;
And when the mind is quick'ned, out of doubt,
The organs, though defunct and dead before,
Break up their drowsy grave and newly move,
With casted slough and fresh legerity.
Lend me thy cloak, Sir Thomas. Brothers both,
Commend me to the princes in our camp;
Do my good morrow to them, and anon
Desire them all to my pavilion.
We shall, my liege.
Shall I attend your Grace?
No, my good knight;
Go with my brothers to my lords of England.
I and my bosom must debate a while,
And then I would no other company.
The Lord in heaven bless thee, noble Harry!
[Exeunt [all but King.]
God-a-mercy, old heart! thou speak'st cheerfully.
Qui va la?
Discuss unto me; art thou officer?
Or art thou base, common, and popular?
I am a gentleman of a company.
Trail'st thou the puissant pike?
Even so. What are you?
As good a gentleman as the Emperor.
Then you are a better than the King.
The King's a bawcock, and a heart of gold,
A lad of life, an imp of fame;
Of parents good, of fist most valiant.
I kiss his dirty shoe, and from heart-string
I love the lovely bully. What is thy name?
Harry le Roy.
Le Roy! a Cornish name. Art thou of Cornish crew?
No, I am a Welshman.
Know'st thou Fluellen?
Tell him I'll knock his leek about his pate
Upon Saint Davy's day.
Do not you wear your dagger in your cap that day, lest
he knock that about yours.
Art thou his friend?
And his kinsman too.
The figo for thee, then!
I thank you. God be with you!
My name is Pistol call'd.
It sorts well with your fierceness.
[Enter Fluellen and Gower.]
So! in the name of Jesu Christ, speak lower. It is the greatest
admiration in the universal world, when the true and aunchient
prerogatifes and laws of the wars is not kept. If you would take
the pains but to examine the wars of Pompey the Great, you
shall find, I warrant you, that there is no tiddle taddle nor
pibble pabble in Pompey's camp. I warrant you, you shall find the
ceremonies of the wars, and the cares of it, and the forms of it,
and the sobriety of it, and the modesty of it, to be otherwise.
Why, the enemy is loud; you hear him all night.
If the enemy is an ass and a fool and a prating coxcomb, is it
meet, think you, that we should also, look you, be an ass and a
fool and a prating coxcomb? In your own conscience, now?
I will speak lower.