Here comes the herald of the French, my liege

Exeter
Here comes the herald of the French, my liege.
Gloucester
His eyes are humbler than they used to be.
King Henry
How now, what means this, herald? Know’st thou not
That I have fined these bones of mine for ransom?
Com’st thou again for ransom?

So do our vulgar drench their peasant limbs
In blood of princes, and the wounded steeds
Fret fetlock deep in gore

Montjoy
No, great king.
I come to thee for charitable license,
That we may wander o’er this bloody field
To book our dead and then to bury them,
To sort our nobles from our common men,
For many of our princes—woe the while!—
Lie drowned and soaked in mercenary blood.
So do our vulgar drench their peasant limbs
In blood of princes, and the wounded steeds
Fret fetlock deep in gore, and with wild rage
Yerk out their armèd heels at their dead masters,
Killing them twice. O, give us leave, great king,
To view the field in safety and dispose
Of their dead bodies.
King Henry
I tell thee truly, herald,
I know not if the day be ours or no,
For yet a many of your horsemen peer
And gallop o’er the field.
Montjoy
The day is yours.
King Henry
Praised be God, and not our strength, for it!
What is this castle called that stands hard by?
Montjoy
They call it Agincourt.
King Henry
Then call we this the field of Agincourt,
Fought on the day of Crispin Crispianus.