That every wretch, pining and pale before, His liberal eye doth give to every one, A little touch of Harry in the night- THE BATTLE FAIR stood the wind for France, When we our sails advance, Nor now to prove our chance But putting to the main, At Caux, the mouth of Seine, And taking many a fort, Skirmishing day by day Shakespeare. With those that stopped his way, With all his power: Which, in his height of pride, King Henry to deride, To the king sending; Which he neglects the while Yet with an angry smile Their fall portending. And turning to his men, Yet have we well begun, Have ever to the sun By fame been raised. And for myself, quoth he, 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.' The Duke of York so dread With the main Henry sped, Amongst his henchmen; Excester had the rear, A braver man not there: O Lord, 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, When from the meadow by, Like a storm suddenly, The English archery Struck the French horses. With Spanish yew so strong, None from his fellow starts, When down their bows they threw, And forth their bilbos drew, Arms were from shoulders sent, This while our noble king, And many a deep wound lent, And many a cruel dent Glo'ster, that duke so good, With his brave brother; Scarce such another! Warwick in blood did wade, Suffolk his axe did ply, Upon Saint Crispin's Day Drayton. AFTER Now we bear the king Toward Calais: grant him there; there seen, sea, Which like a mighty whiffler 'fore the king |