Henry V

Messenger
Ambassadors from Harry King of England
Do crave admittance to your Majesty.
King of France
We’ll give them present audience. Go, and bring them.
 Messenger exits.
You see this chase is hotly followed, friends.

Self-love, my liege, is not so vile a sin
As self-neglecting

Dauphin
Turn head and stop pursuit,
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Thus with imagined wing our swift scene flies
In motion of no less celerity
Than that of thought. Suppose that you have seen
The well-appointed king at Dover pier
Embark his royalty, and his brave fleet
With silken streamers the young Phoebus fanning.
Play with your fancies and in them behold,
Upon the hempen tackle, shipboys climbing.

In motion of no less celerity
Than that of thought.
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Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more,
Or close the wall up with our English dead!

Cry “God for Harry, England, and Saint George!”

In peace there’s nothing so becomes a man
As modest stillness and humility,
But when the blast of war blows in our ears,
Then imitate the action of the tiger:
Stiffen the sinews,
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Bardolph
On, on, on, on, on! To the breach, to the breach!
Nym
Pray thee, corporal, stay. The knocks are too hot,
and, for mine own part, I have not a case of lives.
The humor of it is too hot; that is the very plainsong
of it.

Would I were in an alehouse in London!
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Fluellen
Captain Macmorris, I beseech you now,
will you voutsafe me, look you, a few disputations
with you as partly touching or concerning the
disciplines of the war, the Roman wars? In the way
of argument, look you, and friendly communication,
partly to satisfy my opinion, and partly for the
satisfaction, look you, of my mind,
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King Henry, to the men of Harfleur
How yet resolves the Governor of the town?
This is the latest parle we will admit.
Therefore to our best mercy give yourselves
Or, like to men proud of destruction,
Defy us to our worst.

The gates of mercy shall be all shut up,
And the fleshed soldier,
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King of France
’Tis certain he hath passed the river Somme.
Constable
An if he be not fought withal, my lord,
Let us not live in France. Let us quit all,
And give our vineyards to a barbarous people.
Dauphin
Ô Dieu vivant, shall a few sprays of us,
The emptying of our fathers’ luxury,
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King Henry
What is thy name? I know thy quality.
Montjoy
Montjoy.

The sum of all our answer is but this:
We would not seek a battle as we are,
Nor, as we are, we say we will not shun it.

King Henry
Thou dost thy office fairly.Turn thee back,
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Now entertain conjecture of a time
When creeping murmur and the poring dark
Fills the wide vessel of the universe.

From camp to camp, through the foul womb of night,
The hum of either army stilly sounds,
That the fixed sentinels almost receive
The secret whispers of each other’s watch.

From camp to camp, through the foul womb of night,
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There is some soul of goodness in things evil,
Would men observingly distill it out.
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