Therefore, thou best of gold, art worst of gold;
Other, less fine in carat, is more precious,
Preserving life in med'cine potable;
But thou, most fine, most honour'd, most renown'd, Hast eat thy bearer up. Thus, royal Liege, Accusing it, I put it on my head,
To try with it (as with an enemy,
That had before my face murder'd my father)
The quarrel of a true inheritor.
But if it did affect my blood with joy,
Or swell my thoughts to any strain of pride,
If any rebel or vain spirit of mine
Did with the least affection of a welcome
Give entertainment to the might of it;
Let Heav'n for ever keep it from my head,
And make me as the poorest vassal is,
That doth with awe and terror kneel to it?
K. HENRY. O my son!
Heav'n put in thy mind to take it hence,
That thou might'st win the more thy father's love,
Pleading so wisely in excuse of it.
Come hither, Harry, sit thou by my bed;
And hear, I think, the very latest council
That ever I shall breathe. Heav'n knows, my son,
By what by-paths, and indirect crooked ways
I met this crown; and I myself know well,
How troublesome it sat upon my head.
To thee it shall descend with better quiet,
Better opinion, better confirmation;
For all the toil of the achievement goes
With me into the earth. It seem'd in me
But as an honour snatch'd with boist'rous hand,
And I had many living to upbraid
My gain cf it by their assistances;
Which daily grew to quarrel and to bloodshed,
Wounding supposed peace. All their bold feats,
Thou seest, with peril I have answered.
For all my reign hath been but as a scene
Acting that argue nent: and now my death
Changes the mode; for what in me was purchas'd,
Falls upon thee in a much fairer sort;
For thou the garland wear'st successively.
Yet though Lou stara's more sure than I could do,
Thou art not firm enough, since griefs are green;
And all my friends, which theu must make thy
friends,
Have but their stings and teeth newly ta'en out;
By whose fell working I was first advanc'd,
Ard by whose pow' I well might lodge a fear,
To be again displac'd: which to avoid
I cut them off, and had a purpose now
To lead out many to the holy land;
Lest rest and lying still might make them look
Too near unto my state. Therefore, my Harry,
Be it thy course to busy giddy minds,
With foreign quarrels; that action, hence borne out,
May waste the memory of former days.
More would I, but my lungs are wasted so,
That strength of speech is utterly denied me.
How I came to the crown, O God, forgive!
And grant it may with thee in true peace live!
P. HENRY My gracious Liege,
You won it, wore it, kept it, gave it me;
Then plain and right must my possession be;
Which I with more than with a common pain,
'Gainst all the world, will rightfully maintain.
SHAKSPEARE.
WHO's he that wishes for more men from England?
My cousin Westmoreland? 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 of 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 Lord, 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 hopes I have. Dont wish one more :.
Rather proclaim it (Westmoreland) through myhost,
That he, who 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 nam'd,
And rouse him at the name of Crispian :
He that outlives this day, and sees old age,
Will yearly on, the vigil-feast his neighbours,
And say, Tomorrow is Saint Crispian :
Then will. he strip his sleeves, and show his scars.
Old men forget yet shall not all forget,
But they'll remember what advantages,
The feats they 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 Glo'ster.
Be in their flowing cups freshly remembered.
This story snail the good man teach his son;
And Crispian, Crispian shall neʼer go by,
From this day to the ending of the world,
But we in it shall be remember'd;
We tew, we happy few, we bind of brothers;
For he to day who sheds his blood with me,
Shal be my brother; be he e'er so vile,
This day thall geatle his condition.
And gentlemen in England, now a-bed,
Shall think themselves accurs'd they were not here.
And hold their manhood cheap, while any speaks, That fought with us upon St. Crispian's day.
K. HENRY. HOW fares my Lord? Speak, Beaufort, to thy Sov'reign.
CAR. If thou be'st Death, I'll give thee England's
Enough to purchase such another island,
So thou wilt let me live, and feel no pain.
K. HENRY Ah, what a sign it is of evil life,
Where Death's approach is seen so terribiè !
CAR. Bring me unto my trial when you will Died he not in his bed? Where should he die? Can I make men live whether they will or no?" Oh, torture me no more, I will confess Alive again? Then show me where he is I'll give a thousand pounds to look upon himHe hath no eyes, the dust hath binded them; Comb down his hai. --look ! look it stands upright, Like lime twigs set to catch my winged soul. Give me some drink, and bid th" apothecary' Bring the strong poison that I bought of him.
K. HENRY. O thou Eternal Mover of the Heav'ns, Look with a gentle eye upon this wretch; O, beat away the busy meddling fiend, Thal lays strong siege unto this wretch's soul, And from his bosom purge this black despair. -Peace to his soul, it God's good pleasure bel Lord Card’nal, if 'hou thinkʼst on Heav'ns bliss, Hold up thy hand, make signal of thy hope, lle dies, and makes no sign! O God, forgive him!
WOLSEY AND CROMWELL,
WOL. So farewell to the little good you bear me..
Farewell, a long farewell to all my greatness!"
This is the state of man :. To day he puts forth
The tender leaves of hope; to-morrow blossoms,
And bears his blushing honours thick upon him:
The third day comes a frost, a killing frost,
And when he thinks, good easy man, full surely
His greatness is a rip'ning, nips his shoot;
And then he falls, as I do. I have ventur'd,
Like little wanton boys, that swim on bladders,
These many summers in a sea of glory;
But far beyond my depth; my high blown pride
At length broke under me; and now has left me,
Weary and old with service, to the mercy
Of a rude stream, that must for ever hide me.
Vain pomp and glory of the world, I hate ye!
I feel my heart new open'd. Oh, how wretched
Is that poor man that hangs on prince's favours!
There is, betwixt that smile he would aspire to,
That sweet aspect of princes, and his ruin,
More pangs and fears than war or woman have;
And when he falls, he falls like Lucifer,
Never to hope again,.
Why, how now, Cromwell?
CROM I have no power to speak, Sir.
WOL. What, 'amaz'da
At my misfortunes? Can thy spirit wonder
Α great man should decline? Nay, if you weep,.
I'm fallen indeed.
CROM. How does your Grace ?
WOL. Why, well;
Never so truly happy, my good Cromwell. 1 know myself now, and I feel within me
A peace above all earthly dignities ;
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