For doing these fair rites of tenderness.

Adieu, and take thy praise with thee to heaven!
Thy ignomy sleep with thee in the grave,
But not remember'd in thy epitaph!

SHAKSPERE, I Henry IV., Act v. Sc. 4.

XVII.

REVERENCE FOR LAW.

King Henry V. You are right, justice, and you

weigh this well;

Therefore still bear the balance and the sword:
And I do wish your honours may increase,
Till you do live to see a son of mine
Offend you, and obey you, as I did.

So shall I live to speak my father's words:
"Happy am I, that have a man so bold,
That dares do justice on my proper son;
And not less happy, having such a son,
That would deliver up his greatness so
Into the hands of justice."

You did commit me;

For which I do commit into your hand

The unstain'd sword that you have used to bear;
With this remembrance,―that you use the same
With the like bold, just, and impartial spirit

As you have done 'gainst me.

There is my hand;

You shall be as a father to my youth;

My voice shall sound as you do prompt mine ear,
And I will stoop and humble my intents
To your well-practised, wise directions.

grave,

And, princes all, believe me, I beseech you :
My father is gone wild into his
For in his tomb lie my affections;
And with his spirit sadly I survive,
To mock the expectation of the world,
To frustrate prophecies, and to raze out
Rotten opinion, who hath writ me down
After my seeming. The tide of blood in me
Hath proudly flow'd in vanity till now:
Now doth it turn, and ebb back to the sea,
Where it shall mingle with the state of floods,
And flow henceforth in formal majesty.

SHAKSPERE, 2 Henry IV., Act v. Sc. 2.

XVIII.

ENGLISHMEN IN THE FIELD.

King Henry V. (before Harfleur). Once more unto
the breach, dear friends, once more:

Or close the wall up with our English dead.
In peace there's nothing so becomes a man

As modest stillness and humility :

But when the blast of war blows in our ears
Then imitate the action of the tiger;

Stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood,

*

Then lend the eye a terrible aspect;

*

*

Hold hard the breath, and bend up every spirit
To his full height !-On, on, you noblest English,
Whose blood is fet from fathers of war-proof!
Fathers that, like so many Alexanders,

Have in these parts from morn till even fought,
And sheathed their swords for lack of argument.

And you, good yeomen,

Whose limbs were made in England, show us here
The mettle of your pasture; let us swear

That you are worth your breeding; which I doubt

not:

For there is none of you so mean and base,
That hath not noble lustre in your eyes.
I see you stand 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 Saint George!"

SHAKSPERE, King Henry V., Act iii. Sc. 1.

XIX.

THE EVE OF ST. CRISPIAN.

THE poor condemned English,

Like sacrifices, by their watchful fires

Sit patiently, and inly ruminate

The morning's danger; and their gesture sad,
Investing lank-lean cheeks, and war-worn coats,
Presenteth them unto the gazing moon

So many horrid ghosts. O! now, who will behold
The royal captain of this ruin'd band,
Walking from watch to watch, from tent to tent,
Let him cry-Praise and glory on his head!
For forth he goes, and visits all his host,
Bids them good-morrow with a modest smile,
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 dedicate one jot of colour
Unto the weary and all-watched night :
But freshly looks, and overbears attaint
With cheerful semblance and sweet majesty ;
That every wretch, pining and pale before,
Beholding him, plucks comfort from his looks.
A largess universal, like the sun,

His liberal eye doth give to every one,

E

Thawing cold fear, that mean and gentle all
Behold, as may unworthiness define,

A little touch of Harry in the night.

SHAKSPERE, King Henry V., Act iv., Chorus.

XX.

HENRY THE FIFTH AND AGIN

Westmoreland.

COURT.

O! that we now had here

But one ten thousand of those men in England

That do no work to-day!

King Henry.

What's he that wishes so?

My cousin Westmoreland ?—No, my fair cousin :

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

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 for 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 coz, wish not a man from England:
God's peace! I would not lose so great an honour,