'Eight thousand and four hundred; of the which, The rest are-princes, barons, lords, knights, 'squires, The names of those their nobles that lie dead,— The master of the cross-bows, lord Rambures; John duke of Alençon; Antony duke of Brabant, And Edward duke of Bar: of lusty earls, Grandpré, and Roussi, Fauconberg, and Foix, Where is the number of our English dead? [Herald presents another paper Edward the duke of York, the earl of Suffolk, Sir Richard Ketly, Davy Gam, esquire: None else of name; and, of all other men, Ascribe we all.-When, without stratagem, On one part and on th' other?-Take it, God, -K. Hen. Come, go we in procession to the village: And be it death proclaimed through our host, To boast of this, or take that praise from God, Flu. Is it not lawful, an please your majesty, to tell how many is killed? K. Hen. Yes, captain; but with this acknowledgment, That God hath fought for us. Flu. Yes, my conscience, he did us great goot. Let there be sung Non nobis, and Te Deum. We'll then to Calais; and to England then; Where ne'er from France arriv'd more happy men. [Exeunt. ACT V. Enter CHORUS. Chor. Vouchsafe to those that have not read the story, That I may prompt them: and of such as have, I humbly pray them to admit th' excuse Of time, of numbers, and due course of things, Which cannot in their huge and proper life Be here presented. Now we bear the king Toward Calais: grant him there; there seen, Heave him away upon your winged thoughts, Athwart the sea: Behold, the English beach Pales in the flood with men, with wives, and boys, Whose shouts and claps out-voice the deep-mouth'd sea, Which, like a mighty whiffler 'fore the king, Seems to prepare his way: so let him land; Quite from himself, to God. But now behold, How many would the peaceful city quit, To welcome him? much more, and much more cause, SCENE I-France. An English court of guard. Enter FLUELLEN and Gower. Gow. Nay, that's right; but why wear you your leek to-day? Saint Davy's day is past. Flu. There is occasions and causes why and wherefore in all things: I will tell you, as my friend, captain Gower; The rascally, scald, beggarly, lowsy, pragging knave, Pistol,-which you and yourself, and all the 'orld, know to be no petter than a feilow, look you now, of no merits, he is come to me, and prings me pread and salt yesterday, look you, and bid me eat my leek: it was in a place where I could not preed no contentions with him; but I would be so pold as to wear it in my cap till I see him once again, and then I will tell him a little piece of my desires. Enter PISTOL. Gow. Why, here he comes, swelling like a turkey-cock. Flu. 'Tis no matter for his swellings, nor his turkeycocks.-Got pless you, ancient Pistol! you scurvy, lowsy knave, Got pless you! Pist. Ha! art thou Bedlam? dost thou thirst, base Trojan, To have me fold up Parca's fatal web? Hence! I am qualmish at the smell of leek. Flu. I peseech you heartily, scurvy lowsy knave, at my desires, and my requests, and my petitions, to eat, look you, this leek; because, look you, you do not love it, nor your affections, and your appetites, and your digestions, does not agree with it, I would desire you to eat it. Pist. Not for Cadwallader, and all his goats. Flu. There is one goat for you. [Strikes him.] Will you be so goot, scald knave, as eat it? Pist. Base Trojan, thou shalt die. Flu. You say very true, scald knave, when Got's will is: I will desire you to live in the mean time, and eat your victuals; come, there is sauce for it. [Striking him again.] You called me yesterday, mountain-squire; but I will make you to-day a squire of low degree. I pray you, fall to; if you can mock a leek, you can eat a leek. Gow. Enough, captain; you have astonished him. Flu. I say, I will make him eat some part of my leek, or I will peat his pate four days:-Pite, I pray you; it is goot for your green wound, and your ploody coxcomb, Pist. Must I bite? Flu. Yes, certainly; and out of doubt, and out of questions too, and ambiguities. Pist. By this leek, I will most horribly revenge; I eat, and eke I swear-. Flu. Eat, I pray you: Will you have some more sauce to your leek? there is not enough leek to swear by. Pist. Quiet thy cudgel; thou dost see, I eat. Flu. Much goot do you, scald knave, heartily. Nay, 'pray you, throw none away; the skin is goot for your proken coxcomb. When you take occasions to see leeks hereafter, I pray you, mock at them; that is all. Pist. Good. Flu. Ay, leeks is goot:-Hold you, there is a groat to heal your pate. Pist. Me a groat! Flu. Yes, verily, and in truth, you shall take it; or I have another leek in my pocket, which you shall eat. |