Where is the number of our English dead? [Herald presents another paper. Edward the duke of York, the earl of Suf

folk,

Sir Richard Ketly, Davy Gam, esquire: None else of name; and, of all other men, But five-and-twenty. O God, thy arm was here,

And not to us, but to thy arm alone,

Ascribe we all.-When, without stratagem,
But in plain shock and even play of battle,
Was ever known so great and little loss,
On one part and on the other?—Take it,
God!

For it is none but thine!

Exe.

'Tis wonderful! K. Hen. Come, go we in procession to the

village :

And be it death proclaimed through our host, To boast of this, or take that praise from God Which is his only.

Flu. Is it not lawful, an please your majesty, to tell how many is killed?

us.

K. Hen. Yes, captain; but with this acknowledgment,-That God fought for [goot. Flu. Yes, my conscience, he did us great K. Hen. Do we all holy rites; Let there be sung Non Nobis, and Te Deum; The dead with charity enclosed in clay: And then to Calais; and to England then: Where ne'er from France arrived more hap

py men.

[Exeunt.

ACT V.

CHORUS.

JOUCHSAFE to those that have not read the story,

That I may prompt them: and of such as have,

I humbly pray them to admit the excuse Of time, of numbers, and due course of things,

Which cannot in their huge and proper life Be here presented. Now we bear the king Towards Calais: grant him there; there

seen,

Heave him away upon your winged thoughts, Athwart the sea: behold, the English beach Pales in the flood with men, with wives, and [mouth'd sea,

boys, Whose shouts and claps out-voice the deep. Which, like a mighty whiffler 'fore the king, Seems to prepare his way: so let him land; And, solemnly, see him set on to London. So swift a pace hath thought, that even now You may imagine him upon Blackheath: Where that his lords desire him to have

borne

His bruised helmet, and his bended sword, Before him, through the city: he forbids it, Being free from vainness and self-glorious' pride;

Giving full trophy, signal, and ostent, [hold, Quite from himself, to God. But now be In the quick forge and working-house of thought,

How London doth pour out her citizens ! The mayor, and all his brethren, in best sort,

Like to the senators of the antique Rome, With the plebeians swarming at their heels,Go forth, and fetch their conquering Cæsar

in:

press

As, by a lower but by loving likelihood, Were now the general of our gracious em[coming, (As, in good time, he may) from Ireland Bringing rebellion broached on his sword, How many would the peaceful city quit To welcome him! much more (and much

more cause) [him: Did they this Harry. Now in London place As yet the lamentation of the French; (The emperor's coming in behalf of France Invites the king of England's stay at home, To order peace between them ;)—and omit All the occurrences, whatever chanced, Till Harry's back-return again to France: There must we bring him; and myself have play'd

The interim, by remembering you 'tis past. Then brook abridgment; and your eyes ad [France. After your thoughts, straight back again to

vance

SCENE 1.-France. An English Court of Guard.

Enter FLUELLEN and Gower.

Gow. Nay, that's right; but why wear you your leek to-day? Saint Davy's day is past.

Flu. There is occasions and causes why and wherefore in all things: I will tell you, as my friend, captain Gower: the rascally, scald, beggarly, lousy, pragging knave, Pistol,-which you and yourself, and all the 'orld, know to be no petter than a fellow, look you now, of no merits,-he is come to me, and prings me pread and salt yesterday, look you, and bid me eat my leek: it was in a place where I could not breed no contentions with him; but I will be so pold as to wear it in my cap till I see him once again, and then I will tell him a little piece of my desires.

Enter PISTOL.

Gow. Why, here he comes, swelling like a turkey-cock.

Flu. 'Tis no matter for his swellings, nor his turkey-cocks.-Got pless you, ancient Pistol you scurvy, lousy knave, Got pless you!

!

Pist. Ha! art thou Bedlam? dost thou thirst, base Trojan,

To have me fold up Parca's fatal web? Hence! I am qualmish at the smell of leek.

Flu. I peseech you heartily, scurvy, lousy knave, at my desires, and my requests, and my petitions, to eat, look you, this leek; because, look you, you do not love it, nor your affections, and your appetites, and your digestions, does not agree with it, I would desire you to eat it.

Pist. Not for Cadwallader and all his

goats.

Flu. There is one goat for you. [Strikes him.] Will you be so goot, scald knave, as

eat it?

Pist. Base Trojan, thou shalt die.

Flu. You say very true, scald knave, when Got's will is; I will desire you to live in the mean time, and eat your victuals; come, there is sauce for it. [Striking him again.] You called me yesterday, mountain-squire, but I will make you to-day a squire of low degree. I pray you, fall to; if you can mock a leek, you can eat a leek.

Gow. Enough, captain; you have astonished him.

Flu. I say, I will make him eat some part of my leek, or I will peat his pate four days. -Bite, I pray you it is goot for your green wound, and your ploody coxcomb.

Pist. Must I bite?

Flu. Yes, certainly; and out of doubt, and out of questions too, and ambiguities.

Pist. By this leek, I will most horribly re< venge; I eat-and eat-I swear.

Flu. Eat, I pray you: will you have some