XV.

A PRINCE INDEED.

Hotspur. O! 'would the quarrel lay upon our heads, And that no man might draw short breath to-day, But I and Harry Monmouth! Tell me, tell me, How stood his tasking? seem'd it in contempt? Vernon. No, by my soul; I never in my life Did hear a challenge urged more modestly, Unless a brother should a brother dare To gentle exercise and proof of arms.

He gave you all the duties of a man ;
'Trimm'd up your praises with a princely tongue,
Spoke your deservings like a chronicle,

Making you ever better than his praise,
By still dispraising praise, valued with you;
And, which became him like a prince indeed,
He made a blushing cital of himself,
And chid his truant youth with such a grace,

As if he master'd there a double spirit

Of teaching and of learning instantly.

There did he pause: but let me tell the world,—
If he outlive the envy of this day,

England did never owe so sweet a hope,
So much misconstrued in his wantonness.

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

XVI.

THE COURTEOUS VICTOR.

Hotspur. O Harry, thou hast robb'd me of my

youth!

I better brook the loss of brittle life,

Than those proud titles thou hast won of me;

They wound my thoughts worse than thy sword my

flesh :

But thought's the slave of life, and life time's fool;
And time, that takes survey of all the world,
Must have a stop. O! I could prophesy,
But that the earthy and cold hand of death
Lies on my tongue: no, Percy, thou art dust,
And food for▬▬

[Dies.

Prince. For worms, brave Percy. Fare thee well,

great heart!

Ill-weaved ambition, how much art thou shrunk!

When that this body did contain a spirit,

A kingdom for it was too small a bound;
But now, two paces of the vilest earth

Is room enough: this earth, that bears thee dead,
Bears not alive so stout a gentleman.

If thou wert sensible of courtesy,

I should not make so dear a show of zeal :
But let my favours hide thy mangled face;
And, even in thy behalf, I'll thank myself

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.

And, princes all, believe me, I beseech you :
My father is gone wild into his grave,
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.