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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,
Thawing cold fear, that mean and gentle all,
Behold, as may unworthiness define,
A little touch of Harry in the night-
And so our scene must to the battle fly.

Shakespeare.

THE BATTLE

Fair stood the wind for France,
When we our sails advance,
Nor now to prove our chance

Longer will tarry;
But putting to the main,
At Caux, the mouth of Seine,
With all his martial train,

Landed King Harry.
And taking many a fort,
Furnished in warlike sort,
Marched towards Agincourt

In happy hour,
Skirmishing day by day
With those that stopped his way,
Where the French gen’ral lay

With all his power:
Which, in his height of pride,
King Henry to deride,
His ransom to provide

To the king sending;

Which he neglects the while
As from a nation vile,
Yet with an angry smile

Their fall portending.

And turning to his men,
Quoth our brave Henry then,
Though they to one be ten,

Be not amazed.
Yet have we well begun,
Battles so bravely won
Have ever to the sun

By fame been raised.

And for myself, quoth he,
This
my

full rest shall be: England ne'er mourn for me,

Nor more esteem me;
Victor I will remain
Or on this earth lie slain;
Never shall she sustain

Loss to redeem me.

Poitiers and Cressy tell,
When most their pride did swell,
Under our swords they fell;

No less our skill is
Than when our grandsire great,
Claiming the regal seat,
By many a warlike feat

Lopped the French lilies.'

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None from his fellow starts,
But playing manly parts,
And like true English hearts

Stuck close together.

When down their bows they threw,
And forth their bilbos drew,
And on the French they flew,

Not one was tardy;
Arms were from shoulders sent,
Scalps to the teeth were rent,
Down the French peasants went;

Our men were hardy.

This while our noble king,
His broadsword brandishing,
Down the French host did ding

As to o’erwhelm it,
And many a deep wound lent,
His arms with blood besprent,
And many a cruel dent

Bruised his helmet.

Glo'ster, that duke so good,
Next of the royal blood,
For famous England stood,

With his brave brother;
Clarence, in steel so bright,
Though but a maiden knight,
Yet in that furious fight

Scarce such another!

Warwick in blood did wade,
Oxford the foe invade,
And cruel slaughter made,

Still as they ran up;
Suffolk his axe did ply,
Beaumont and Willoughby
Bare them right doughtily,

Ferrers and Fanhope.

Upon Saint Crispin's Day
Fought was this noble fray,
Which fame did not delay,

To England to carry.
O, when shall Englishmen
With such acts fill a pen,
Or England breed again
Such a King Harry?

Drayton.

AFTER

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-mouthed

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

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