LESSON IV.

When Henry the Fourth was on his Death-bed, he ordered the Crown to be laid by him on his Pillow. The Prince of Wales, who had hitherto lived a very wild and diffolute Life, (though afterwards he was the famous Henry the Fifth, who conquered France) fitting by his Bed-fide, and imagining his Father was dead, took the Crown from his Pillow, reflecting and moralizing upon it, and retired into the next Room very forrowful. The King awaking, called for his Crown and Son, who entering hastily the Room, fays, I never thought to hear you speak again; upon which the King takes occafion to rebuke him in the following Speech. [The Prince of Wales's Answer to be spoken by another Boy.]

K. Henry.

TH

HY Wifh was Father, Harry, to that
Thought:

I ftay too long by thee, I weary thee.

Doft thou fo hunger for my empty Chair,

That thou wilt needs inveft thee with my Honours,
Before thy Hour be ripe? O foolish Youth!

Thou fuck'ft the Greatness that will overwhelm thee.
Stay but a little, for my Cloud of Dignity
Is held from falling with so weak a Wind,
That it will quickly drop, my Day is done.
Thou haft ftol'n That, which, after a few Hours,
Were thine without Offence; and at my Death
Thou haft feal'd up my Expectation.

Thy Life did manifeft, thou lov'dft me not;
And thou wilt have me die affur'd of it.
Thou hid'ft a thousand Daggers in thy Thoughts,
Which thou haft whetted on thy ftony Heart,
To ftab at half an Hour of my frail Life.
What! canft thou not forbear me half an Hour?
Then get thee gone, and dig my Grave thyself,
And bid the merry Bells ring to thy Ear
That Thou art crowned, not that I am dead.
Let all the Tears, that fhould bedew my Herfe,
Be Drops of Balm to fanctify thy Head;
Only compound me with forgotten Duft,

Give that which gave thee Life, unto the Worms.
Pluck down my Officers, break my Decrees;
For now a Time is come to mock at Form;

Henry

Henry the Fifth is crown'd: Up, Vanity!
Down royal State! all you fage Counsellors, hence;
And at the English Court affemble now,
From ev'ry Region, Apes of Idleness:

Now, neighbour Confines, purge you of your Scum;
Have you a Ruffian that will fwear, drink, dance,
Revel the Night, rob, murder, and commit
The oldeft Sins the neweft kind of Ways?
Be happy, he will trouble you no more:
England fhall give him Office, Honour, Might:
For the Fifth Harry from curb'd Licence plucks
The Muzzle of Reftraint; and the wild Dog
Shall flesh his Tooth on every Innocent.
O my poor Kingdom, fick with Civil Blows!
When that my Čare would not withhold thy Riots,
What wilt thou do when Riot is thy Care?

O, thou wilt be a Wilderness again,
Peopled with Wolves, thy old Inhabitants.

[Kneeling

P. Henry. O pardon me, my Liege! but for my Tears
I had foreftall'd this dear and deep Rebuke,
Ere you with Grief had fpoke, and I had heard
The Course of it fo far. There is your Crown;
And he that wears the Crown immortally,
Long guard it yours! If I affect it more,
Than as your Honour, and as your Renown,
Let me no more from this Obedience rise,
Which my moft true and inward-duteous Spirit
Teacheth this proftrate and exterior Bending.
Heav'n witnefs with me, when I here came in,
And found no Course of Breath within your Majefty,
How cold it struck my Heart! If I do feign,
O let me in my prefent Wildness die,
And never live to fhew th' incredulous World
The noble Change that I have purposed.
Coming to look on you, thinking you dead,
(And dead almoft, my Liege, to think you were)
I fpake unto the Crown as having Senfe,

And thus upbraided it. "The Care on thee depending
"Hath fed upon the Body of my Father."

Accufing 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,

Οι

Or fwell my Thoughts to any Strain of Pride --
If any rebel or vain Spirit of mine

Did with the leaft 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 Vaffal is,
That doth with Awe and Terror kneel to it!

The Speech of King Henry the Fifth at the Siege of Harfleur.

NCE more unto the Breach, dear Friends, once more,
Or close the Wall up with the English Dead.

In Peace there's nothing fo becomes a Man

As modeft Stillness and Humility:

But when the Blast of War blows in our Ears,
Then imitate the Action of the Tiger;
Stiffen the Sinews, fummon up the Blood,
Difguife fair Nature with hard-favour'd Rage;
Then lend the Eye a terrible Afpect;

Let it pry o'er the Portage of the Head,

Like the Brafs Cannon: let the Brow o'erwhelm it,
As fearfully as doth a galled Rock

O'erhang and jutty his confounded Base,

Swill'd with the wild and wasteful Ocean.

Now fet the Teeth, and ftretch the Noftril wide;
Hold hard the Breath, and bend up every Spirit
To his full Height. Now on, you noblest English,
Whofe Blood is fetch'd from Fathers of War-proof;
Fathers, that, like fo many Alexanders,

Have in thefe Parts from Morn till Even fought,
And fheath'd their Swords for lack of Argument.
Dishonour not your Mothers; now attest,

That thofe, whom you call'd Fathers, did beget you.

Be Copy now to Men of groffer Blood,

And teach them how to war. And you, good Yeomen,
Whofe Limbs were made in England, fhew us here

The Metal of your Pafture: Let us fwear

That you are worth your Breeding, which I doubt not:
For there is none of you fo mean and base,
That hath not noble Luftre in your Eyes;

VOL. I.

G

I fee

I fee you ftand like Greyhounds in the Slips,
Straining upon the Start. The Game's afoot;
Follow your Spirit; and, upon this Charge,
Cry, God for Harry! England! and St. George!

Part of the Speech Spoken by the Chorus in the Play of Henry the Fifth. The Time fuppofed to be the Night before the Battle of Agincourt.

TOW let Imagination form a Time,

When creeping Murmur, and the poring Dark,

Fills the wide Veffel of the Universe.

From Camp to Camp, through the foul Womb of Night,
The Hum of either Army ftilly founds;

That the fixt Centinels almoft receive

The fecret Whispers of each other's Watch.
Fire answers Fire; and through their paly Flames
Each Battle fees the other's umber'd Face.
Steed threatens Steed, in high and boastful Neighs
Piercing the Night's dull Ear, and from the Tents
The Armourers, accomplishing the Knights,
With bufy Hammers clofing Rivets up,
Give dreadful Note of Preparation.

The Country Cocks do crow, the Clocks do toll:
And (the third Hour of droufy Morning nam'd)
Proud of their Numbers and fecure in Soul,
The confident and over-hafty French
Do chide the cripple tardy-paced Night,

Who, like a foul and ugly Witch, does limp

So tedioufly away. The poor condemned English,
Like Sacrifices, by their watchful Fires

Sit patiently, and inly ruminate

The Morning's Danger: and their Danger fad,

Set forth in lank-lean Cheeks and War-worn Coats,

Prefenteth them unto the gazing Moon

So many horrid Ghofts. Who now beholds

The royal Captain of this ruin'd Band

Walking from Watch to Watch, from Tent to Tent,
Let him cry, Praife and Glory on his Head!
For forth he goes and visits all his Hoft,

Bids them Good-morrow with a modeft Smile,

And

And calls them Brothers, Friends, and Countrymen.
Upon his royal Face there is no Note,
How dread an Army hath enrounded him :
Nor doth he give up the leaft Jot of Colour
Unto the weary and all-watched Night;
But freshly looks, and over-bears Fatigue
With chearful Semblance and sweet Majesty :
That ev'ry Wretch, pining and pale before,
Beholding him, plucks Comfort from his Looks.

LESSON VII.

The Speech of Henry the Fifth at the Battle of Agincourt, where be gained that glorious Victory, which compleated the Conqueft of France, and which is fo highly celebrated by all our Hiftorians, as he encountered near fixty thousand Frenchmen, with fo fmall a Number as 120co English. The Earl of Weftmoreland faying,

O that we now had here

But one ten thousand of those Men in England,

That do no Work to-day!

King Henry, with a noble and undaunted Spirit, spoke as follows.

W

HAT's he, that wishes fo?

My Coufin Westmoreland? No, my fair Coufin,

If we are mark'd to die, we are enow

To do our Country Lofs; and if to live,
The fewer Men, the greater fhare of Honour.
God's Will! I pray thee wifh not one Man more,
I am not the leaft covetous of Gold;

Nor care I who doth feed upon my

Coft;
It yerns me not if Men my Garments wear;
Such outward Things dwell not in my Defire:
But if it be a Sin to covet Honour,

I am the most offending Soul alive.

No, no, my Lord, with not a Man from England :

I would not lofe fo great, fo high an Honour

As one Man more, methinks, fhould fhare from me,
For the best Hopes I have. Don't wish one more:
Rather proclaim it, IVeftmoreland, throughout my Host,
That he who hath no Stomach to this Fight,