Westminster Abbey. |
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Dead March. Enter the Funeral of KING HENRY THE FIFTH attended on by the DUKES OF BEDFORD, GLOUCESTER, and EXETER; the EARL OF WARWICK, the BISHOP OF WINCHESTER, Heralds, &c. |
Bed. Hung be the heavens with black, yield day to night! |
Comets, importing change of times and states, |
Brandish your crystal tresses in the sky, |
And with them scourge the bad revolting stars, |
That have consented unto Henry's death! |
King Henry the Fifth, too famous to live long! |
England ne'er lost a king of so much worth. |
Glo. England ne'er had a king until his time. |
Virtue he had, deserving to command: |
His brandish'd sword did blind men with his beams; |
His arms spread wider than a dragon's wings; |
His sparkling eyes, replete with wrathful fire, |
More dazzled and drove back his enemies |
Than mid-day sun fierce bent against their faces. |
What should I say? his deeds exceed all speech: |
He ne'er lift up his hand but conquered. |
Exe. We mourn in black: why mourn we not in blood? |
Henry is dead and never shall revive. |
Upon a wooden coffin we attend, |
And death's dishonourable victory |
We with our stately presence glorify, |
Like captives bound to a triumphant car. |
What! shall we curse the planets of mishap |
That plotted thus our glory's overthrow? |
Or shall we think the subtle-witted French |
Conjurers and sorcerers, that, afraid of him, |
By magic verses have contriv'd his end? |
Win. He was a king bless'd of the King of kings. |
Unto the French the dreadful judgment-day |
So dreadful will not be as was his sight. |
The battles of the Lord of hosts he fought: |
The church's prayers made him so prosperous. |
Glo. The church! where is it? Had not churchmen pray'd |
His thread of life had not so soon decay'd: |
None do you like but an effeminate prince, |
Whom like a school-boy you may over-awe. |
Win. Gloucester, whate'er we like thou art protector, |
And lookest to command the prince and realm. |
Thy wife is proud; she holdeth thee in awe, |
More than God or religious churchmen may. |
Glo. Name not religion, for thou lov'st the flesh, |
And ne'er throughout the year to church thou go'st, |
Except it be to pray against thy foes. |
Bed. Cease, cease these jars and rest your minds in peace! |
Let's to the altar: heralds, wait on us: |
Instead of gold we'll offer up our arms, |
Since arms avail not, now that Henry's dead. |
Posterity, await for wretched years, |
When at their mothers' moist eyes babes shall suck, |
Our isle be made a marish of salt tears, |
And none but women left to wail the dead. |
Henry the Fifth! thy ghost I invocate: |
Prosper this realm, keep it from civil broils! |
Combat with adverse planets in the heavens! |
A far more glorious star thy soul will make, |
Than Julius Cæsar, or bright— |
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Enter a Messenger. |
Mess. My honourable lords, health to you all! |
Sad tidings bring I to you out of France, |
Of loss, of slaughter, and discomfiture: |
Guienne, Champaigne, Rheims, Orleans, |
Paris, Guysors, Poictiers, are all quite lost. |
Bed. What sayst thou, man, before dead Henry's corse? |
Speak softly; or the loss of those great towns |
Will make him burst his lead and rise from death. |
Glo. Is Paris lost? is Roan yielded up? |
If Henry were recall'd to life again |
These news would cause him once more yield the ghost. |
Exe. How were they lost? what treachery was us'd? |
Mess. No treachery; but want of men and money. |
Among the soldiers this is muttered, |
That here you maintain several factions; |
And, whilst a field should be dispatch'd and fought, |
You are disputing of your generals. |
One would have lingering wars with little cost; |
Another would fly swift, but wanteth wings; |
A third thinks, without expense at all, |
By guileful fair words peace may be obtain'd. |
Awake, awake, English nobility! |
Let not sloth dim your honours new-begot: |
Cropp'd are the flower-de-luces in your arms; |
Of England's coat one half is cut away. |
Exe. Were our tears wanting to this funeral |
These tidings would call forth their flowing tides. |
Bed. Me they concern; Regent I am of France. |
Give me my steeled coat: I'll fight for France. |
Away with these disgraceful wailing robes! |
Wounds will I lend the French instead of eyes, |
To weep their intermissive miseries. |
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Enter another Messenger. |
Sec. Mess. Lords, view these letters, full of bad mischance. |
France is revolted from the English quite, |
Except some petty towns of no import: |
The Dauphin Charles is crowned king in Rheims; |
The Bastard of Orleans with him is join'd; |
Reignier, Duke of Anjou, doth take his part; |
The Duke of Alençon flieth to his side. |
Exe. The Dauphin crowned king! all fly to him! |
O! whither shall we fly from this reproach? |
Glo. We will not fly, but to our enemies' throats. |
Bedford, if thou be slack, I'll fight it out. |
Bed. Gloucester, why doubt'st thou of my forwardness? |
An army have I muster'd in my thoughts, |
Wherewith already France is overrun. |
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Enter a third Messenger. |
Third Mess. My gracious lords, to add to your laments, |
Wherewith you now bedew King Henry's hearse, |
I must inform you of a dismal fight |
Betwixt the stout Lord Talbot and the French. |
Win. What! wherein Talbot overcame? is't so? |
Third Mess. O, no! wherein Lord Talbot was o'erthrown: |
The circumstance I'll tell you more at large. |
The tenth of August last this dreadful lord, |
Retiring from the siege of Orleans, |
Having full scarce six thousand in his troop, |
By three-and-twenty thousand of the French |
Was round encompassed and set upon. |
No leisure had he to enrank his men; |
He wanted pikes to set before his archers; |
Instead whereof sharp stakes pluck'd out of hedges |
They pitched in the ground confusedly, |
To keep the horsemen off from breaking in. |
More than three hours the fight continued; |
Where valiant Talbot above human thought |
Enacted wonders with his sword and lance. |
Hundreds he sent to hell, and none durst stand him; |
Here, there, and every where, enrag'd he flew: |
The French exclaim'd the devil was in arms; |
All the whole army stood agaz'd on him. |
His soldiers, spying his undaunted spirit, |
A Talbot! A Talbot! cried out amain, |
And rush'd into the bowels of the battle. |
Here had the conquest fully been seal'd up, |
If Sir John Fastolfe had not play'd the coward. |
He, being in the vaward,—plac'd behind, |
With purpose to relieve and follow them,— |
Cowardly fled, not having struck one stroke. |
Hence grew the general wrack and massacre; |
Enclosed were they with their enemies. |
A base Walloon, to win the Dauphin's grace, |
Thrust Talbot with a spear into the back; |
Whom all France, with their chief assembled strength, |
Durst not presume to look once in the face. |
Bed. Is Talbot, slain? then I will slay myself, |
For living idly here in pomp and ease |
Whilst such a worthy leader, wanting aid, |
Unto his dastard foemen is betray'd. |
Third Mess. O no! he lives; but is took prisoner, |
And Lord Scales with him, and Lord Hungerford: |
Most of the rest slaughter'd or took likewise. |
Bed. His ransom there is none but I shall pay: |
I'll hale the Dauphin headlong from his throne; |
His crown shall be the ransom of my friend; |
Four of their lords I'll change for one of ours. |
Farewell, my masters; to my task will I; |
Bonfires in France forthwith I am to make, |
To keep our great Saint George's feast withal: |
Ten thousand soldiers with me I will take, |
Whose bloody deeds shall make all Europe quake. |
Third Mess. So you had need; for Orleans is besieg'd; |
The English army is grown weak and faint; |
The Earl of Salisbury craveth supply, |
And hardly keeps his men from mutiny, |
Since they, so few, watch such a multitude. |
Exe. Remember, lords, your oaths to Henry sworn, |
Either to quell the Dauphin utterly, |
Or bring him in obedience to your yoke. |
Bed. I do remember it; and here take my leave, |
To go about my preparation. [Exit. |
Glo. I'll to the Tower with all the haste I can, |
To view the artillery and munition; |
And then I will proclaim young Henry king. [Exit. |
Exe. To Eltham will I, where the young king is, |
Being ordain'd his special governor; |
And for his safety there I'll best devise. [Exit. |
Win. Each hath his place and function to attend: |
I am left out; for me nothing remains. |
But long I will not be Jack-out-of-office. |
The king from Eltham I intend to steal, |
And sit at chiefest stern of public weal. [Exit. |
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