Enter Chorus. | |
| Now entertain conjecture of a time | |
| When creeping murmur and the poring dark | |
| Fills the wide vessel of the universe. | 4 |
| From camp to camp, through the foul womb of night, | |
| The hum of either army stilly sounds, | |
| That the fix’d sentinels almost receive | |
| The secret whispers of each other’s watch: | 8 |
| Fire answers fire, and through their paly flames | |
| Each battle sees the other’s umber’d face: | |
| Steed threatens steed, in high and boastful neighs | |
| Piercing the night’s dull car; and from the tents | 12 |
| The armourers, accomplishing the knights, | |
| With busy hammers closing rivets up, | |
| Give dreadful note of preparation. | |
| The country cocks do crow, the clocks do toll, | 16 |
| And the third hour of drowsy morning name. | |
| Proud of their numbers, and secure in soul, | |
| The confident and over-lusty French | |
| Do the low-rated English play at dice; | 20 |
| And chide the cripple tardy-gaited night | |
| Who, like a foul and ugly witch, doth limp | |
| So tediously away. The poor condemned English, | |
| Like sacrifices, by their watchful fires | 24 |
| 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 | 28 |
| 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!’ | 32 |
| 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 | 36 |
| 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 | 40 |
| 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 | 44 |
| His liberal eye doth give to every one, | |
| Thawing cold fear. Then mean and gentle all, | |
| Behold, as may unworthiness define, | |
| A little touch of Harry in the night. | 48 |
| And so our scene must to the battle fly; | |
| Where,—O for pity,—we shall much disgrace, | |
| With four or five most vile and ragged foils, | |
| Right ill dispos’d in brawl ridiculous, | 52 |
| The name of Agincourt. Yet sit and see; | |
| Minding true things by what their mockeries be. [Exit. | |
