With the main 4 Henry sped,

Amongst his henchmen.15 Exeter16 had the rear, A braver man not there; Heavens! how hot they were

On the false Frenchmen!

They now to fight are gone : Armour on armour shone, Drum now to drum did groan;

To hear was wonder ; That with the cries they make The very earth did shake; Trumpet to trumpet spake;

Thunder to thunder.

Well it thine age became,
O noble Erpingham, 17
Which did the signal aim

To our hid forces ;18
When from a meadow by,
Like a storm, suddenly,
The English archery

Struck the French horses.

25 Gloucester, brother to the king.
26 Clarence, brother to the king.
27 Agincourt was his first battle.
28 Tho Earl of Warwick.
29 The Earl of Oxford. He was killed.
80 The Earl of Suffolk.

31 Tbis and the remaining names

are those of knights., 32 doughtily, bravely. . 33 Crispin's day, a French Saint's

8

O when shall Englishmen
With such acts fill a pen,
Or England breed again

Such a King Harry!

ith his poem should be read Sbakspearo's Henry V., and a History of England.

Born at Stratford-on-Avon, he left it in early manhood for Londonlived there as a player, play-writer, and part owner of the Theatreand finally returned, well-to-do, to Stratford, and there died. His amazing genius places him far above all other English poets-perhaps above all others of all time.

DEATH.

To be, or not to be: that is the question:
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,
And, by opposing, end them ?-To die-to sleep-
No more ;?—and, by a sleep, to say we end
The heart-ache, and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to, 'tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wished. To die,-to sleep ;-

To sleep: perchance to dream; ay, there's the rub;
For in that sleep of death what dreams may cone,
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause :—there's the respect3
That makes calamity of so long life:*
For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
The oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely,
The pangs of despised love, the law's delay,
The insolence of office, and the spurns
That patient merit of the unworthy takes,
When he himself might his quietusó make
With a bare bodkin ?6 who would fardels? bare,
To grunt and sweat under a weary life,
But that the dread of something after death,-
The undiscovered country from whose bourns
No traveller returns,-puzzles the will,
And makes us rather bear those ills we have,
Than fly to others that we know not of?
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all;
And thus the native hue of resolution'
Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought,10
And enterprises of great pith and moment,
With this regard,11 their currents turn awry
And lose the name of action. 12