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as you shall desire in a summer's day. Here is his majesty.
Enter King Henry and Exeter. K. Hen. How now! what's the matter?
Flu. My liege, here's a villain, and a traitor, that, look your grace, has struck the glove which your majesty is take out of the helmet of Alençon.
Will. My liege, this was my glove; here is the fellow of it: and he, that I gave it to in change, promised to wear it in his cap; I promised to strike him, if he did: I met this man with my glove in his cap, and I have been as good as my word.
Flu. Your majesty hear now, (saving your majesty's manhood,) what an arrant, rascally, beggarly, lowsy knave it is: I hope, your majesty is pear me testimony, and witness, and avouchments, that this is the glove of Alençon, that your majesty is give me, in your conscience now.
K. Hen. Give me thy glove, soldier: Look, here is the fellow of it. 'Twas I, indeed, thou promised'st to strike; and thou hast given me most bitter terms.
Flu. An please your majesty, let his neck answer for it, if there is any martial law in the 'orld.
K. Hen. How canst thou make me satisfaction?
Will. All offences, my liege, come from the heart: never came any from mine, that might offend your majesty.
K. Hen. It was ourself thou didst abuse.
Will. Your majesty came not like yourself: you appeared to me but as a common man; witness the night, your garments, your lowliness; and what your highness
suffered under that shape, I beseech you, take it for your own fault, and not mine : for had you been as I took you for, I made no offence; therefore, I beseech your highness, pardon me.
K. Hen. Here, uncle Exeter, fill this glove with crowns, And give it to this fellow.-Keep it, fellow; And wear it for an honour in thy cap, Till I do challenge it.-Give him the crowns :And, captain, you must needs be friends with him.
Flu. By this day and this light, the fellow has mettle enough in his pelly :-Hold, there is twelve pence for you, and I pray you to serve Got, and keep you out of prawls, and prabbles, and quarrels, and dissensions, and, I warrant you, it is the petter for you.
Will. I will none of your money.
Flu. It is with a goot will; I can tell you, it will serve you to mend your shoes: Come, wherefore should you be so pashful? your shoes is not so goot: 'tis a goot silling, I warrant you, or I will change it.
Enter an English Herald. K. Hen. Now, herald; are the dead number'd ? Her. Here is the number of the slaughter'd French.
[Delivers a Paper. K. Hen. What prisoners of good sort are taken, uncle?
Ere. Charles duke of Orleans, nephew to the king, John duke of Bourbon, and lord Bouciqualt: Of other lords, and barons, knights, and 'squires, Full fifteen hundred, besides common men.
K. Hen. This note doth tell me of ten thousand French, That in the field lie slain : of princes, in this number, And nobles bearing banners, there lie dead
One hundred twenty-six: added to these,
[Herald presents another Paper.
Exe. 'Tis wonderful !
K. Hen. Come, go we in procession to the village: And be it death proclaimed through our host, To boast of this, or take that praise from God, Which is his only.
Flu. Is it not lawful, an please your majesty, to tell how many is killed ?
K. Hen. Yes, captain; but with this acknowledgment, That God fought for us.
Flu. Yes, my conscience, he did us great goot.
K. Hen. Do we all holy rites ;
Enter Chorus. Chor. Vouchsafe to those that have not read the story, That I may prompt them: and of such as have, I humbly pray them to admit the excuse Of time, of numbers, and due course of things, Which cannot in their huge and proper life Be here presented. Now we bear the king Toward Calais: grant him there ; there seen, Heave him away upon your winged thoughts, Athwart the sea : Behold, the English beach Pales in the flood with men, with wives, and boys, Whose shouts and claps out-voice the deep-mouth'd sea, Which, like a mighty whiffler 'fore the king, Seems to prepare his way: so let him land; And, solemnly, see him set on to London. So swift a pace hath thought, that even now You may imagine him upon Blackheath: Where that his lords desire him, to have borne His bruised helmet, and his bended sword, Before him, through the city: he forbids it, Being free from vainness and self-glorious pride; Giving full trophy, signal, and ostent, Quite from himself, to God. But now behold, In the quick forge and workinghouse of thought,