So that, in these ten thousand they have lost,
There are but sixteen hundred mercenaries;
The rest are-princes, barons, lords, knights,
'squires,

And gentlemen of blood and quality.

The names of those their nobles that lie dead,-
Charles De-la-bret, high constable of France;
Jaques of Chatillon, admiral of France;

The master of the cross-bows, lord Rambures;
Great-master of France, the brave sir Guischard
Dauphin;

John duke of Alençon; Antony duke of Brabant,
The brother to the duke of Burgundy;

And Edward duke of Bar: of lusty earls,
Grandpré, and Roussi, Fauconberg, and Foix,
Beaumont, and Marle, Vaudemont, and Lestrale.
Here was a royal fellowship of death!--
Where is the number of our English dead?

[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,
But five and twenty. O God, thy arm was here,
And not to us, but to thy arm alone,
Ascribe we all.-When, without stratagem,
But in plain shock, and even play of battle,
Was ever known so great and little loss,
On one part and on the other?-Take it, God,
For it is only thine!

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 kill'd?

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;

Let there be sung Non nobis, and Te Deum.
The dead with charity enclos'd in clay,
We'll then to Calais; and to England then;

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,
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,
How London doth pour out her citizens!

The mayor, and all his brethren, in best sort,—

Like to the senators of the antique Rome,
With the plebeians swarming at their heels,—
Go forth, and fetch their conquering Cæsar in:
As, by a lower but by loving likelihood,

Were now the general of our gracious empress
(As, in good time, he may,) from Ireland coming,
Bringing rebellion broached on his sword,

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;
(As yet the lamentation of the French
Invites the king of England's stay at home:
The emperor's coming in behalf of France,
To order peace between them;) and omit
All the occurrences, whatever chanc'd,
Till Harry's back-return again to France;
There must we bring him; and myself have play'd
The interim, by remembering you-'tis past.
Then brook abridgement; and your eyes advance
After your thoughts, straight back again to France.

[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