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A murderer, and a villain;
Now all the youth of England are on fire,
from home, and discontent at home, Meet in one line; and vast confusion waits (As doth a raven on a sick-fallen beast) The imminent decay of wrested pomp.
Tell me, he that knows, Why are such daily cast of brazen cannon, And foreign mart for implements of war? Why such impress of ship-wrights, whose sore task
Does not divide the Sunday from the week?
For the love of all the gods,
Know, the gallant monarch is in arms;
He hath fought to-day,
Wars are no strife, To the dark house, and the detested wife.
Poor lord! is't I That chase thee from thy country, and expose Those tender limbs of thine to the event Of the none-sparing war? and is it I That drive thee from the sportive court, where thou Wast shot at with fair eyes, to be the mark Of smoky muskets?
Follow thy drum; With man's blood paint the ground, gules, gules : Religious canons, civil laws are cruel; Then what should war be?
In a moment, look to see The blind and bloody soldier with foul hand Defile the locks of your shrill-shrieking daughters ; Your fathers taken by the silver beards, And their most reverend heads dash'd to the walls ; Your naked infants spitted upon pikes; Whiles the mad mothers with their howls confus'd Do break the clouds.
The gates of mercy shall be all shut up;
The cannons have their bowels full of wrath
Now on, you noblest English, Whose blood is fetch'd from fathers of war proof; Fathers, that, like so many Alexanders, Have, in these parts, from morn till even fought, And sheath'd their swords for lack of argument. I see you stand like greyhounds in the slips, Straining upon the start. The game's a-foot ; Follow your spirit; and, upon this charge, Cry-God for Harry, England, and St. George ! Dying like men, tho' buried in your dunghills, They shall be fam'd; for there the sun shall greet them, And draw their honours reeking up to heaven; Leaving their earthly parts to choak your clime.
Let not thy sword skip one : Pity not honour'd age for his white beard, He is an usurer : Strike me the counterfeit matron; It is her habit only that is honest, Herself's a bawd : Let not the virgin's cheek Make soft thy trenchant sword; for those milk-paps, That through the window-bars bore at men's eyes, Are not within the leaf of pity writ, But set them down horrible traitors.
I'll use the advantage of my pow'r, And lay the summer's dust with show'rs of blood, Rain'd from the wounds of slaughter'd Englishmen.
What, stand’st thou idle here ? lend me thy sword;
To arms ! be champion of our church ! Or let the church, our mother, breathe her curse, A mother's curse, on her revolting son. Then, in the name of God, and all these rights, Advance your standards, draw your willing swords : For me, the ransom of bold attempt Shall be this cold corpse on the earth's cold face; But if I thrive, the gain of my attempt The least of you shall share his part thereof.
We few, we happy few, we band of brothers;
He, that shall live this day, and see old age,
these wounds I had on Crispin’s day.
'Tis positive 'gainst all exception, Lords,