So that, in these ten thousand they have lost, And gentlemen of blood and quality. The names of those their nobles that lie dead,- The master of the cross-bows, lord Rambures; John duke of Alençon; Antony duke of Brabant, And Edward duke of Bar: of lusty earls, [Herald presents another paper. Edward the duke of York, the earl of Suffolk, Sir Richard Ketly, Davy Gam, esquire: None else of name; and, of all other men, 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, Flu. Is it not lawful, an please your majesty, to tell how many is kill'd? K. Hen. Yes, captain; but with this acknowledgment, That God fought for us. Flu. Yes, my conscience, he did us great goot. Let there be sung Non nobis, and Te Deum. Where ne'er from France arriv'd more happy men. [Exeunt. ACT V Enter Chorus. Chor. Vouchsafe to those that have not read the story, That I may prompt them: and of such as have, Of time, of numbers, and due course of things, sea, Which, like a mighty whiffler 'fore the king, Quite from himself, to God. But now behold, The mayor, and all his brethren, in best sort,— Like to the senators of the antique Rome, Were now the general of our gracious empress How many would the peaceful city quit, To welcome him? much more, and much more cause, Did they this Harry. Now in London place him; [Exit. SCENE I. FRANCE. AN ENGLISH COURT OF GUARD. Enter Fluellen and Gower. Gow. Nay, that's right; But why wear you your leek to-day? saint Davy's day is past. Flu. There is occasions and causes why and wherefore in all things: I will tell you, as my friend, captain Gower; The rascally, scald, beggarly, lowsy, pragging knave, Pistol,-which you and yourself, and all the 'orld, know to be no petter than a fellow, look you now, of no merits, he is come to me, and prings me pread and salt yesterday, look you, and bid me eat my leek: it was in a place where I could not breed no contentions with him; but I will be so pold as to wear it in my cap till I see him once again, and then I will tell him a little piece of my desires. Enter Pistol. Gow. Why, here he comes, swelling like a turkey-cock. Flu. 'Tis no matter for his swellings, nor his turkey-cocks.-Got pless you, ancient Pistol! you scurvy, lowsy knave, Got pless you! Pist. Ha! art thou Bedlam? dost thou thirst, base Trojan, To have me fold up Parca's fatal web? Hence! I am qualmish at the smell of leek. Flu. I peseech you heartily, scurvy lowsy knave, at my desires, and my requests, and my petitions, to eat, look you, this leek; because, look you, you do not love it, nor your affections, and your appetites, and your digestions, does not agree with it, I would desire you to eat it. Pist. Not for Cadwallader, and all his goats. Flu. There is one goat for you. [Strikes him.] Will you be so goot, scald knave, as eat it? Pist. Base Trojan, thou shalt die. Flu. You say very true, scald knave, when Got's |