Till that his passions, like a whale on ground,
Confound themselves with working.

GRIEF FOR THE LOSS OF HENRY THE FIFTH.

FROM THE FIRST PART OF THE PLAY OF 'KING HENRY THE SIXTH.'

The Duke of Gloster, and the Duke of Bedford, uncles of Henry the Sixth, deplore the death of the Fifth Henry, as follows:

Bedford. Hung be the heavens with black, yield day to night!

Comets portending 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!
Henry the Fifth, too famous to live long!
England ne'er lost a king of so much worth.

Gloster. England ne'er had a king until his time:
Virtue he had, deserving to command;

His brandish 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.

SPEECH OF HENRY V. TO HIS SOLDIERS AT THE SIEGE OF HARFLEUR.

Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more;
Or close the wall up with our English dead.

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, summon up the blood,
Disguise fair nature with hard-favoured rage:
Then lend the eye a terrible aspect;

Let it pry through the portage of the head,
Like the brass cannon.

Now set the teeth, and stretch the nostril wide;
Hold hard the breath, and bend up every spirit
To its full height! On, on, you noblest English,
Whose blood is fetched from fathers of war-proof!
Fathers, that, like so many Alexanders,
Have, in these parts, from morn till even fought,
And sheathed their swords for lack of argument.
I see you stand like greyhounds in the slips,
Straining upon the start. The game's afoot:
Follow your spirit; and upon this charge
Cry-God for Harry! England! and St. George!

HENRY V.-SPEECH AT AGINCOURT.

What's he that wishes more men from England?
My cousin Westmorland ?—No, my fair cousin :

If we are marked to die, we are enow

To do our country loss; and if to live,

The fewer men the greater share of honour.
No, no, my lord, wish not a man from England;
Rather proclaim it, Westmoreland, throughout my
host,

That he who hath no stomach to this fight

May straight depart; his passport 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 called the feast of Crispian:
He that outlives this day, and sees old age,
Will yearly on the vigil feast his neighbours,
And say-to-morrow is St. Crispian :

Then will he strip his sleeve, and show his scars.

Old men forget, yet shall not all forget,

But they'll remember with advantages,

What feats they did that day. Then shall our names,
Familiar in their mouths as household words,-
Harry the King, Bedford and Exeter,

Warwick and Talbot, Salisbury and Gloster,
Be in their flowing cups freshly remembered:
This story shall the good man teach his son;
And Crispian, Crispian, shall ne'er go by,
From this time 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 accursed they were not here, And hold their manhoods cheap, while any speaks That fought with us upon St. Crispian's day.

DESCRIPTION OF A FLEET SETTING SAIL.

FROM THE PLAY OF KING HENRY THE FIFTH.'

Suppose, that you have seen

The well-appointed King at Hampton 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, ship-boys climbing:
Hear the shrill whistle, which doth order give
To sounds confused: behold the threaden sails,
Borne with the invisible and creeping wind,
Draw the huge bottoms through the furrow'd sea,
Breasting the lofty surge

DESCRIPTION OF NIGHT IN A CAMP.

FROM THE PLAY OF KING HENRY THE FIFTH.'

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:

Fire answers fire, and through their paly flames
Each battle sees the other's umber'd face:

Steed threatens steed, in high and boastful neighs
Piercing the night's dull ear; and from the tents
The armourers accomplishing the knights,
With busy hammers closing rivets up,

Give dreadful note of preparation.

The country cocks do crow, the clocks do toll,
And the third hour of drowsy morning name.
Proud of their numbers, and secure in soul,
The confident and over-lusty French
Do the low-rated English play at dice;
And chide the cripple tardy-gaited night,
Who, like a foul and ugly witch, doth limp
So tediously away. The poor condemned English,
Like sacrifices, by their watchful fires,

Sit patiently, and inly ruminate

The morning's danger; and their gesture sad,
Investing lank-lean cheeks, and war-worn coats,
Presenteth them unto the gazing moon

So many horrid ghosts. O now, who will behold
The royal captain of this ruin'd band,

Walking from watch to watch, from tent to tent,
Let him cry-Praise and glory on his head!
For forth he goes and visits all his host;
Bids them good-morrow, with a modest smile;
And calls them-brothers, friends, and countrymen.
Upon his royal face there is no note

How dread an army hath enrounded him;
Nor doth he dedicate one jot of colour

Unto the weary and all-watched night,