WHAT's he that withes for more men from England ?
My cousin Westmoreland ? No, my fair cousin,
If we are mark'd to die, we are enow
To do our country loss; and if to live,
The fewer men the greater share of honour.
God's will! I pray thee wish not one man more.
By Jove, I am not covetous of gold;
Nor care I who doth feed upon my cost;
It yearns me not if men my garments wear;
Such outward things dwell not in my desires :
But if it be a Gin to covet honour,
I am the most offending foul alive.
No, 'faith, my lord, with not a man from England :
God's peace! I would not lose so great an honour,
As one man more, methinks, would share from me,
For the best hopes I have. Don't wish one more:
Rather proclaim it (Westinoreland) through my hoft,
That he which hath no stomach to this fight,
Let him depart; his pafsport shall be made,
And crowns for convoy put into his purse :
We would not die in that man's company,

That fears his fellowship to die with us.
This day is call'd the feast of Crispian :
He that outlives this day, and comes safe home,
Will fand a tip-toe when this day is nam’d,
And rouse him at the name of Crispian :
He that outlives this day, and sees old age,
Will yearly on the vigil feast his neighbours,


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And say, To-morrow is Saint Crispian :
'Then will he strip his-sleeve, and thew his scars.
Old men forget; yet shall not all forget,
But they'll remember, with advantages,

The feats they did that day. Then shall our names,
Familiar in their mouth as household words,
Harry the king, Bedford, and Exeter,
Warwick and Talbot, Salisbury and Glo'ster, .
Be in their flowing cups freshly remember'd.
This story shall the good man teach his fon :
And Crispin Crispian shall ne'er go by,
From this day to the ending of the world,
But we in it shall be remembered ;
We few, we happy few, we band of brothers!
For he to-day that sheds his blood with me,
Shall be my brother; be he e'er so vile,
This day shall gentle his condition,
And gentlemen in England, now a-bed, ,
Shall think themselves accurs'd they were not here ;
And hold their manhoods cheap, while any speaks,
That fought with us upon St. Crispian's day.





How fares my lord? Speak, Beaufort, to
K. Hen.

thy sovereign.
CAR. If thou be'l Death, I'll give thee England's treasure,


Enough to purchase such another island,
So wilt thou let me live and feel no pain.

K. Henry. Ah, what a sign it is of evil life,
Where Death's approach is seen fo terrible ?

WAR. Beaufort, it is thy fovereign speaks to thee.
CAR. Bring me unto my trial when


Dy'd he not in his bed ? Where should he die?
Can I make men live whether they will or no ?
Oh, torture me no more, I will confess-
Alive again? Then shew me where he is :
I'll give a thousand pounds to look upon him
He hath no eyes, the dust hath blinded them :
Comb down his hair : look! look! it stands upright,
Like lime-twigs set to catch my winged foul.
Give me some drink, and bid the apothecary
Bring the strong poison that I bought of him.

K. Henry. O thou eternal Mover of the heav'ns,
Look with a gentle eye upon this wretch !
Oh, beat away the busy meddling fiend,
That lays strong fiege unto this wretch's soul,
And from his bosom purge this black despair.

-Peace to his soul, if God's good pleasure be!
Lord Cardinal, if thou think'it on Heaven's bliss,
Hold up thy hand, make signal of thy hope.
He dies, and makes no fign! O God, forgive him.

War. So bad a death argues a monstrous life.

K. Henry. Forbear to judge, for we are finners all,
Close up his eyes, and draw the curtain close,
And let us all to meditation.


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W...Farewel, a long farewel to all my greatness!
This is the state of man: To-day he puts

The tender leaves of hope : to-morrow blossoms,
And bears his bluihing honours thick upon
The third day comes a frost, a killing frost,
And when he thinks, good easy man, full surely
His greatness is a ripening, nips his shoot ;
And then he falls as I do. I have ventur'd,
Like little wanton boys that swim on bladders,
These many summers in a sea of glory;
But far beyond my depth : my high blown pride
At length broke under me; and now has left me,
Weary, and old with service, to the mercy
Of a rude stream, that must for ever hide me.
Vain pomp and glory of the world, I hate ye !
I feel my heart new open'd. Oh, how wretched
Is that poor man that hangs on princes' favours !
There is, betwixt that smile he would aspire to,
That sweet aspeet of princes, and his ruin,
More pangs and fears than wars or women have;
And when he falls he falls like Lucifer,
Never to hope again!
Why, how now, Cromwell?

CROM. I have no power to speak, Sir.

WOL. What! amaz'd
At my misfortunes? Can thy spirit wonder
A great man should decline ? Nay, if you weep,
I'm fall’n indeed.


Crom. How does your grace?:

Wol. Way, well;
Never fo truly happy, my good Cromwell."-
I kvow myself now, and I feel within me
A peace above all earthly dignities;
A fill and quiet conscience. The king has cur'd me,
I humbly thank his grace; and, from these shoulders,
These ruir'd piilars, out of pity taken
A load would sink a navy-co n.uch honour.
, 'cis a burthen, Cromwell ! 'ris:a burthen,
Too heavy for a man thar tiopes for heav'o!

CROM. I'm glad your grace has made that right use of it.

Wol. I hope I have : l'ın able now, methinks,
Out of a fortitude of loul I feel,
T'indure more miseries, and greater far,

my weak hearted enemies dare offer. What news abroad?

Crom. The heaviest and the worst, Is your displeasure with the king.

WOL. God bless him.-

Crom. The next is, that Sir Thomas More is chosen Lord Chancellor in your place.

Wol. That's somewhat sudden-
But he's a learned man.

May he continue
Long in his highness' favour, and do justice
For truth's fake and his conscience; that his bones,
When he has run his course, and sleeps in bleflings,
May have a tomb of orphans' tears wept on him !
What more?

CROM. That Cranmer is return'd with welcome;
Install'd Lord Archbishop of Canterbury,


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