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Were thine without offence; and at my death
Thou haft feal'd up my expectation;

Thy life did manifeft, thou lov'dst 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! can't thou not forbear me half an hour?
Then get thee gone, and dig my grave thyself,
And bid the merry bells ring to thine ear,
That thou art crowned, not that I am dead.
Let all the tears that fhould bedew my hearfe,
Be drops of balm to sanctify 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 the Fifth is crown'd: up, Vanity!


Down, Royal ftate! All you fage counfellors, hence!
And to the English court affemble now,

From ev'ry region, apes of idleness:

Now, neighbour confines, purge you of your fcum ;
Have you a ruffian that will fwear? drink? dance?
Revel the night? rob? murder? and commit
The oldest fins the newest kind of ways?
Be happy, he will trouble you no more:
England shall give him office, honour, might:
For the Fifth Harry from curb'd licence plucks
The muzzle of restraint! and the wild dog
Shall flesh his tooth on every innocent.
O my poor kingdom, fick with civil blows!
When that my care could not with-hold thy riot,


What wilt thou do when riot is thy care?
O, thou wilt be a wilderness again,

Peopled with wolves, thy old inhabitants.

P. HENRY. O pardon me, my Liege! but for my tears (The moist impediments unto my speech)

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 your's! If I affect it more,
Than as your honour, and as your renown,
Let me no more from this obedience rife,
Which my
most true and inward-duteous fpirit
Teacheth this proftrate and exterior bending.
Heav'n witnefs with me, when I here came in,
And found no course of breath within your Majesty,
How cold it ftruck 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 sense,

And thus upbraided it. The care on thee depending
Hath fed upon the body of my father,

Therefore thou beft of gold art worst of gold;

Other less fine in carrat, is more precious,

Preferving life in med'cine potable:

But thou, moft fine, moft honour'd, moft renown'd,

Haft eat thy bearer up. Thus, Royal Liege,

Accufing it, I put it on my head,

Το 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 infect my blood with joy,

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 pooreft vaffal is,
That doth with awe and terror kneel to it!
K. HENRY. O my fon!

Heav'n put in thy mind to take it hence,

That thou might'ft win the more thy father's love,
Pleading fo wifely in excufe of it.

Come hither, Harry, fit thou by my bed;
And hear, I think, the very latest counsel

That ever I shall breathe. Heav'n knows, my fon,
By what bye-paths, and indirect crook'd ways
I met this crown; and I myself know well,
How troublesome it fat upon my head.
To thee it fhall defcend with better quiet,
Better opinion, better confirmation:
For all the foil of the atchievement goes
With me into the earth. It feem'd in me

But as an honour snatch'd with boist'rous hand,

And I had many living to upbraid

My gain of it by their affiftances;

Which daily grew to quarrel and to bloodshed,
Wounding fuppofed peace. All their bold feats,
Thou feeft, with peril I have answer'd.
For all my reign hath been but as a scene

Acting that argument: and now my death

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Changes the mode; for what in me was purchas'd,

Falls upon thee in a much fairer fort;

For thou the garland wear'ft fucceffively.

Yet though thou stand'ft more fure than I could do,
Thou art not firm enough, fince griefs are green ;
And all my friends, which thou must make thy friends,
Have but their ftings and teeth newly ta'en out;

By whofe fell working I was first advanc'd,

And by whofe power I well might lodge a fear,
To be again difplac'd; which to avoid

I cut them off, and had a purpose now
To lead out many to the holy land;

Left reft and lying ftill might make them look
Too near into my ftate. Therefore, my Harry,
Be it thy courfe to bufy giddy minds

With foreign quarrels; that action, hence, borne out,
May wafte the memory of former days.

More would I, but my lungs are wasted so,
That ftrength of fpeech is utterly deny'd me..
How I came by 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 muft my poffeffion be;
Which I with more than with a common pain,
'Gainst all the world, will rightfully maintain.






HAT's he that wishes for more men from England?
My cousin Weftmoreland? 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 with not one man more,
By Jove, I am not covetous of gold;

Nor care I who doth feed upon my coft;
It yearns me not if men my garments wear;
Such outward things dwell not in my defires;
But if it be a fin to covet honour,

I am the most offending foul 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 fhare from me,
For the best hopes I have. Don't wish one more:
Rather proclaim it (Weftmoreland) through my hoft,
That he which hath no ftomach to this fight,
Let him depart; his paffport fhall 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 fafe home,
Will stand a tip-toe when this day is nam'd,
And roufe him at the name of Crifpian :
He that outlives this day, and fees old age,
Will yearly on the vigil feaft his neighbours,


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