Sweet China oranges!
Ale and sweet berry!
- Nuts! - Ale and sweet bananas!
O for a muse of fire...
that would ascend the brightest heaven of invention,
a kingdom for a stage, princes to act...
and monarchs to behold the swelling scene!
Then should the warlike Harry, like himself, assume the port of Mars...
and at his heels, leashed in like hounds...
would famine, sword and fire crouch for employment.
But pardon, gentles all, the flat, unraised spirits...
that hath dared on this unworthy scaffold...
to bring forth so great an object.
Can this cockpit hold the vasty fields of France?
Or may we cram within this wooden O...
the very casques that did affright the air at Agincourt?
On your imaginary forces work.
Suppose within the girdle of these walls...
are now confined two mighty monarchies...
whose high upreared and abutting fronts...
the perilous narrow ocean parts asunder.
Piece out our imperfections with your thoughts.
Think when we talk of horses that you will see them...
printing their proud hoofs in the receiving earth.
For 'tis your thoughts that now must deck our kings,
carry them here and there, jumping o'er times,
turning the accomplishment of many years...
into an hourglass.
For the which supply, admit me chorus to this history...
who prologue-like your humble patience pray...
gently to hear,
kindly to judge our play.
My lord, I'll tell you.
That same bill is urged...
which in the 11th year of the last king's reign...
was likely to have been against us passed...
but that the scambling and unquiet times...
did push it out of further question.
But how, my lord, shall we resist it now?
It must be thought on. If it pass against us...
we lose the better half of our possession.
For all those temporal lands which men devout by testament...
have given to the church would they strip from us.
Thus runs the bill.
- This would drink deep. - It would drink the cup and all.
But what prevention?
The king is full of grace and fair regard.
And a true lover of the holy church.
The courses of his youth promised it not,
since his addiction was to courses vain,
his companies unlettered, rude and shallow,
his hours filled up with banquets, riots, sports...
and never noted in him any study.
And so the prince obscured his contemplations...
under the veil of wildness,
which grew, no doubt, like the summer grass, fastest by night.
The breath no sooner left his father's body...
but that the wildness, mortified in him,
seemed to die too.
Sir John Falstaff...
And all his company along with him...
he banished...
And on pain of death not to come near his person...
By ten miles.
Yea, at that very moment, consideration like an angel came...
and whipped the offending Adam out of him.
Never was such a sudden scholar made.
Never came reformation in a flood...
as in this king.
We are blessed in the change.
"We are blessed in the change"!
But how now for mitigation of this bill urged by the Commons?
Doth His Majesty incline to it or no?
He seems indifferent,
or rather swaying more upon our part.
For I have made an offer to His Majesty...
as touching France, to give a greater sum than ever at one time...
the clergy yet did to his predecessors part withal.
How did this offer seem received?
With good acceptance of his majesty,
save that there was not time enough to hear,
as I perceived His Grace would fain have done,
of his true title to some certain dukedoms...
and generally to the crown and seat of France...
derived from Edward, his great grandfather.
What was the impediment that broke this off?
The French ambassador upon that instant craved audience...
And I think the hour is come to give him hearing.
Is it 4:00?
- It is. - Then go we in to hear his embassy...
which I could with a ready guess declare...
before the Frenchman speak a word of it.
I'll wait upon you, and I long to hear it.
Where is my gracious Lord of Canterbury?
- Not here in presence. - Send for him, good uncle.
Shall we call in the Ambassador, my liege?
Not yet, my cousin. We would be resolved...
before we hear him, of some things of weight that task our thoughts...
concerning us and France.
God and His angels guard your sacred throne...
and make you long become it.
Sure we thank you.
My learned lord, we pray you to proceed...
and justly and religiously unfold why the law Salic...
that they have in France...
or should, nor should not, bar us in our claim.
We charge you, in the name of God...
take heed how you awake the sleeping sword of war.
For never two such kingdoms did contend without much fall of blood...
whose guiltless drops do make such waste in brief mortality.
Then hear me, gracious Sovereign, and you peers...
that owe your lives, your faith, your services...
to this imperial throne.
There is no bar to make against your Highness' claim to France...
but this, which they produce from Pharamond:
"In terram Salicam mulieres ne succedant."
"No woman shall succeed in Salic land."
Which Salic land the French unjustly gloze to be the realm of France.
Yet their own authors faithfully affirm...
that the land Salic lies in Germany...
between the floods of Sala and of Elbe...
where Charles the Great,
having subdued the Saxons,
there left behind and settled certain French...
who, holding in disdain the German women...
for some dishonest manners of their life,
Established there this law:
To wit, no female should be inheritrix in Salic land...
which is this day in Germany called Meisen.
Then doth it well appear...
the Salic law was not devised for the realm of France.
Nor did the French possess the Salic land...
until 401 and 20 years...
after defunction of King...
Pharamond,
idly supposed the founder of this law.
King Pepin, which deposed Childeric...
did, as heir general, being descended...
Of...
Blithild,
Which was daughter to...
King Clothair, made claim and title to the throne of France.
Hugh Capet also...
which usurped the crown of...
Of Charles, the Duke of Lorraine,
sole heir male of the true line and stock of...
Of Charles the Great...
could not keep quiet in his conscience,
wearing the crown of France, till satisfied...
that fair... that fair...
that fair...
Queen Isabel, his grandmother,
was lineal of the Lady... of the Lady...
of the Lady Ermengard,
daughter to Charles, the foresaid Duke of Lorraine.
So that, as clear as is the summer sun,
all hold in right and title of the female.
So do the kings of France unto this day,
howbeit they would hold up this Salic law...
to bar Your Highness' claiming from the female...
May I with right and conscience make this claim?
The sin upon my head, dread Sovereign!
For in the Book of Numbers it is writ:
When the son die, let the inheritance...
descend unto the daughter.
Gracious Lord, stand for your own.
Look back into your mighty ancestors.
Go to your great-grandsire's tomb from whom you claim,
invoke his warlike spirit...
and your great-uncle's, Edward the Black Prince.
Your brother kings and monarchs of the Earth expect...
that you should rouse yourself as did the former lions of your blood.
They know your Grace hath cause and means and might.
So hath Your Highness.
Never King of England had nobles richer or more loyal subjects...
whose hearts have left their bodies here in England and lie in France.
Oh, let their bodies follow, my dear liege,
with blood and sword and fire to win your right.
In aid whereof we of the spiritualty...
will raise Your Highness such a mighty sum...
as never did the clergy at one time bring in to any of your ancestors.
Now are we well resolved, and by God's help and yours,
the noble sinews of our power,
France being ours, we'll bend it to our awe...
or lay these bones in an unworthy urn...
tombless, with no remembrance over them.
Now are we well prepared to know the pleasure of our fair cousin Dauphin,
for we hear your greeting is from him, not from the king.
May it please Your Majesty to give us leave,
freely to render what we have in charge,
or shall we sparingly show you...
far off the Dauphin's meaning and our embassy?
We are no tyrant, but a Christian king.
Therefore with frank and uncurbed plainness tell us the Dauphin's mind.
Thus, then, in few.
Your Highness, lately sending into France...
did claim some certain dukedoms...
in the right of your great predecessor, King Edward the Third.
In answer to which claim, the Prince our master says...
that you savor too much of your youth.
He therefore sends you, fitter for your study,
this tun of treasure...
and, in lieu of this, desires you let the dukedoms that you claim...
hear no more of you.
This the Dauphin speaks.
What treasure, Uncle?
Tennis balls, my liege.
We are the glad the Dauphin is so pleasant with us.
His present and your pains we thank you for.
When we have matched our rackets to these balls,
we will in France, by God's grace, play a set...
shall strike his father's crown into the hazard!
Tell him he hath made a match with such a wrangler...
that all the courts of France will be disturbed with chases.
And we understand him well, how he comes o'er us with our wilder days,
not measuring what use we made of them.
But tell the Dauphin we will keep our state,
be like a king and show our sail of greatness,
when we do rouse us in our throne of France.
And tell the pleasant prince this mock of his...
hath turned these balls to gun-stones,
and his soul shall stand sore-charged for the wasteful vengeance...
that shall fly with them.
For many a thousand widows shall this his mock...
mock out of their dear husbands,
mock mothers from their sons, mock castles down.
Aye, some are yet ungotten and unborn...
that shall have cause to curse the Dauphin's scorn.
But this lies all within the will of God,
to whom we do appeal, and in whose name tell you the Dauphin...
we are coming on to venge us as we may...
and to put forth our rightful claim in a well-hallowed cause.
So get you hence in peace and tell the Dauphin...
his jest will savor but of shallow wit,
when thousands weep...
more than did laugh at it.
Convey them with safe conduct. Fare you well.
This was a merry message.
We hope to make the sender blush at it.
Therefore, let our proportions for these wars be soon collected,
and all things thought upon that may with reasonable swiftness...
add more feathers to our wings.
For, God before, we'll check this Dauphin at his father's door.
Now all the youth of England are on fire,
and silken dalliance in the wardrobe lies;
now thrive the armorers,
and honor's thought reigns solely in the breast of every man.
They sell the pasture now to buy the horse,
following the mirror of all Christian kings...
with winged heels, as English Mercuries.
For now sits expectation in the air,
and hides a sword, from hilts unto the point,
with crowns imperial, crowns and coronets,
promised to Harry and his followers.
Linger your patience on, for, if we may,
we'll not offend one stomach with our play.
Well met, Corporal Nym.
Oh, good morrow, Lieutenant Bardolph.
What, are Ensign Pistol and you friends yet?
For my part, I care not. I say little, but when time shall serve...
I will bestow a breakfast to make you friends,
and we'll all go three sworn brothers to France.
- Let it be so, Corporal Nym. - Well, I cannot tell.
Oh, it is certain, Corporal, that he's married to Nell Quickly.
And certainly she did you wrong, for you were betrothed to her.
Things must be as they may. Men may sleep.
They may have their throats about 'em at that time.
- Some say knives have edges. - Oh!
Well, I cannot tell.
Here comes Pistol and his wife.
Good corporal, good corporal, be patient here.
How now, mine host Pistol?
Base tyke.
Call'st thou me host?
Now by this hand I swear I scorn the title.
Nor shall my Nell keep lodgers.
No, by my troth, not long.
For we cannot lodge and board a dozen or 14 gentlewomen...
that live honestly by the prick of their needles, but it'll be a thought...
we keep a bawdy house, straight.
O hound of Crete, think'st thou my spouse to get?
I have and I will hold my honey queen and there's enough. Go to.
I would prick your guts a little, and that's the truth of it.
Well-a-day,
Lady, we shall have willful murder and adultery committed.
Good corporal, good lieutenant, offer nothing here.
- Pish! - Pish to thee, Iceland dog!
Thou prick-eared cur of Iceland!
Good Corporal Nym, show thy valor. Put up thy sword.
I will cut thy throat one time or other in fair terms.
I can take! Now Pistol's cock is up,
and flashing fire will follow.
Hear me! Hear me what I say!
He that strikes the first stroke, I'll run him up to the hilts,
as I'm a s-s-soldier.
An oath of mickle might, and fury shall abate.
Mine host Pistol, you must come to Sir John Falstaff.
And you, hostess. He's very sick and would to bed.
Good Bardolph, put thy nose
between his sheets and do the office of a warming pan.
- Away, you rogue! - Faith, he's very ill.
By my troth, the king hath killed his heart.
Good husband, come home presently.
Come. Shall I make you two friends?
We must to France together.
Why the devil should we keep knives to cut one another's throats?
Let floods o'erswell and fiends for food howl on.
You'll pay me the eight shillings I won off you at betting?
Base is the slave that pays.
Now that I will have. That's the humor of it.
As manhood shall compound. Push home!
By this sword,
he that makes the first thrust, I'll kill him.
By this s-s-sword I will.
A s-s-sword is an oath,
And oaths must have their place.
Corporal Nym, an thou wilt be friends, be friends.
An thou wilt not, why then, be enemies with me too. Prithee, put up.
As ever you come of women, come quickly to Sir John.
He's so shaked of a burning quotidian fever,
it's lamentable to behold.
Sweet men, come to him.
The king hath run bad humors on the knight.
Nym, thou hast spoke the right.
His heart is fracted and corroborate.
The king is a good king, but it must be as it may. He passes some humors.
Let us condole the knight.
For, lambkins, we will live.
Linger your patience on...
and we'll digest the abuse of distance.
Force a play.
The king is set from London,
and the scene is now transported, gentles,
to Southampton.
There is the playhouse now.
There must you sit,
and thence to France shall we convey you safe...
and bring you back, charming the narrow seas...
to give you gentle pass.
But here, till then,
unto Southampton do we change our scene.
Now sits the wind fair.
Uncle of Exeter, set free the man committed yesterday...
that railed against our person.
We consider it was the heat of wine that set him on,
and, on his wiser thought, we pardon him.
That's mercy, but too much security.
Let him be punished, Sovereign, lest example breed, by his sufferance,
more of such a kind.
Let us yet be merciful.
We doubt not now but every rub is smoothed on our way.
Then forth, dear countrymen.
Let us deliver our puissance into the hand of God,
putting it straight in expedition.
Cheerly to sea,
The signs of war advance.
No King of England, if not King of France!
Still be kind,
and eke out our performance...
with your mind.
God save thy grace, King Hal,
my royal Hal.
God save thee, my sweet boy.
My king, my Jove, I speak to thee my heart.
I know thee not, old man.
Fall to thy prayers.
How ill white hairs become a fool and jester.
I have long dreamed of such a kind of man,
so surfeit swelled, so old and so profane.
But being awaked I do despise my dream.
Reply not to me with a foolish jest.
Presume not that I am the thing I was.
For God doth know, so shall the world perceive...
that I have turned away my former self,
so shall I those that kept me company.
Prithee, honey, sweet husband,
let me bring thee to Staines.
No, for my manly heart doth yearn.
Bardolph, be blithe. Nym, rouse thy vaunting veins.
Boy, bristle thy courage up.
For Falstaff, he is dead,
and we must yearn therefore.
Well, Sir John is gone. God be with him.
Would I were with him, wheresome'er he is,
either in heaven or in hell.
Nay, he's not in hell.
He's in Arthur's bosom, if ever man went to Arthur's bosom.
He made a finer end and went away an it had been any christom child.
He parted just betwixt 12:00 and 1:00,
e'en at the turning of the tide.
When I saw him fumble with the sheets,
play with flowers and smile upon his finger ends,
I knew there was no way but one.
For his nose was as sharp as a pen,
and he babbled of green fields.
"How now, Sir John?" quoth I.
"What, man? Be of good cheer."
So he cried out,
"God! God! God!"
Three or four times.
And I, to comfort him, bid him he should not think on God.
I hoped there was no need to trouble himself with any such thoughts yet.
So he bade me lay more clothes on his feet.
I put me hand on the bed and felt them,
and they were as cold as any stone.
Then I felt to his knees,
and they were as cold as any stone.
And so, upwards...
and upwards.
And all was cold as any stone.
They say he cried out for sack.
Aye, he did that.
- And for women. - Aye...
- That he did not! - That he did.
And he said they were devils incarnate.
He said once, the devil would have him about women.
He did in some sort, indeed, handle women.
Then he was rheumatic. He spoke of the Whore of Babylon.
Do you not remember, he saw a flea stand on Bardolph's nose...
and said it was a black soul burning in hell-fire?
Well, the fuel is gone that maintained that fire.
That's all the riches I got in his service.
Shall we go? The king will be gone from Southampton.
Come. Let us away.
My love, give me thy lips.
Look to my chattels and my moveables.
Go clear thy crystals.
Yoke-fellows in arms, let us to France,
like horse-leeches, my boys,
to suck, to suck, the very blood to suck.
Touch her soft lips and part.
Farewell, hostess.
Eh! I cannot kiss. That's the humor of it, but...
- Adieu. - Let housewifery appear.
Keep close, I thee command.
Farewell, farewell, divine Zenocrate.
Is it not passing brave to be a king...
and ride in triumph through Persepolis?
Suppose that you have seen the well-appointed king...
at Hampton Pier embark his royalty and his brave fleet.
Play on 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,
born with the invisible and creeping wind,
draw the huge vessels through the furrowed sea,
breasting the lofty surge.
0 do but think you stand upon the shore,
and thence behold the city...
on the inconstant billows dancing,
holding due course to Harfleur.
Follow, follow!
And leave your England as dead midnight still,
guarded with grandsires, babies and old women.
For who is he, whose chin is but enriched...
with one appearing hair,
that will not follow these culled and choice-drawn...
cavaliers to France?
The French, advised by good intelligence...
of this most dreadful preparation,
shake in their fear,
and with pale policy seek to divert the English purposes.
Thus comes the English with full power upon us,
and more than carefully it us concerns...
to answer royally in our defenses.
Therefore, you dukes of Berri...
and of Bourbon,
Lord Constable and Orleans,
shall make forth.
And you, Prince Dauphin,
with all swift dispatch,
to line and new-repair our towns of war...
with men of courage,
and with means...
defendant.
My most redoubted father,
it is most meet we arm us against the foe.
And let us do it with no show of fear.
No, with no more than if we heard that England were busied...
with a Whitsun morris dance.
For, my good liege, she is so idly kinged,
so guided by a shallow, humorous youth, that fear attends her not.
0 peace, Prince Dauphin.
You are too much mistaken in this king.
Question your grace our late ambassadors...
with what great state he heard their embassy,
how well-supplied with aged counselors,
how terrible in constant resolution.
Well, 'tis not so, my Lord High Constable,
but though we think it so, it is no matter.
In cases of defense, 'tis best to weigh the enemy more mighty than he seems.
And he is bred out of that bloody strain...
that haunted us in our familiar paths,
when Crecy battle fatally was struck...
and all our princes captive by the hand...
of that black name...
Edward, Black Prince of Wales.
This is a stem of that victorious stalk.
And let us fear the native mightiness...
and fate of him.
Ambassadors from Harry, King of England,
do crave admittance to your majesty.
We will give them present audience.
Go and bring them!
Good, my sovereign, take up the English short...
and let them know of what a monarchy you are the head.
Self-love, my liege, is not so vile a sin as self-neglecting.
From our brother England?
From him, and thus he greets your majesty.
He wills you in the name of God Almighty,
that you divest yourself and lay apart...
the borrowed glories that by gift of heaven,
by law of nature and of nations, 'longs to him and his heirs,
namely the crown.
Willing you overlook this pedigree,
and when you find him evenly derived...
from his most famed of famous ancestors, Edward the Third,
he bids you then resign your crown and kingdom,
indirectly held from him,
the native and true challenger.
If not, what follows?
Bloody constraint.
For if you hide the crown, even in your hearts, there will he rake for it.
Therefore in fierce tempest is he coming,
in thunder and in earthquake, like a Jove,
that, if requiring fail, he will compel.
This is his claim, his threatening, and my message,
unless the Dauphin be in presence here,
to whom expressly I bring greeting too.
For us, we will consider this further.
Tomorrow shall you bear our full intent back to our brother England.
For the Dauphin, I stand here for him.
What to him from England?
Scorn and defiance,
slight regard, contempt...
and anything that may not misbecome the mighty sender,
doth he prize you at.
Thus says my king.
And if your father's highness do not,
in grant of all demands at large,
sweeten the bitter mock you send his Majesty,
he'll make your Paris Louvre shake for it.
Tomorrow shall you know our... mind at full.
Dispatch us with all speed,
lest that our king come here himself to question our delay.
Work, work your thoughts,
and therein see a siege!
Behold the ordnance on their carriages...
with fatal mouths gaping on girded 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-favored rage.
Then lend the eye a terrible aspect.
Let it pry through the portage of the head like a brass cannon.
Let the brow o'erwhelm it as fearfully as doth a galled rock...
o'erhang and jutty his confounded base,
swilled with the wild and wasteful ocean.
Now set the teeth and stretch the nostril wide.
Hold hard the breath and bend up every spirit to his full height.
On, on, you noblest English, whose blood is fet 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!
Dishonor not your mothers!
Now attest that those whom you called fathers did beget you.
Be copy now to men of grosser blood and teach them how to war.
And you, good yeomen, whose limbs were made in England,
show us here the mettle of your pasture.
Let us swear that you are worth your breeding,
which I doubt not, for there is none of you so mean and base...
that hath not noble luster in your eyes.
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 Saint George!"
God for Harry, England and Saint George!
God for Harry, England and...
On! On! On!
To the breach!
Pray thee, Corporal, stay. The knocks are too hot.
Ah, knocks, they come and go.
God's vassals drop and die, and sword and shield...
in bloody field doth win immortal fame.
'Tis honor, and that's the truth of it.
Would I were in an alehouse in London.
I'd give all my fame for a pot of ale and safety.
God's plud! On to the breach, you dogs!
Avaunt, you cullions!
Ahh!
Ah, be merciful, great duke, to men of mold.
- Aah! Abate thy rage! - On to the breach!
- Abate thy rage! Abate! - On! On!
The nimble gunner with linstock now the devilish cannon touches.
And down goes all before them!
Captain Fluellen!
Captain Fluellen, you must come presently to the mines.
The Duke of Gloucester would speak with you.
To the mines? Tell you the duke...
it is not so good to come to the mines.
For, look you, the mines is not according to the disciplines of war.
The concavities of it is not sufficient.
For, look you, the adversary, you may discuss unto the Duke, look you,
is digged himself four yards under the countermines.
Pfft! By Cheshu,
I think he will blow up all if there is not better directions.
The Duke of Gloucester, whom the order of the siege is given,
is altogether directed by an Irishman, a very valiant gentleman, in faith.
- It is Captain MacMorris, is it not? - I think it be.
He is an ass as in the world! I will verify as much in his beard.
He has no more directions in the true disciplines of the war, look you,
of the Roman disciplines, as in a puppy dog.
Here he comes, and the Scots captain, Captain Jamy, with him.
Ah, Captain Jamy is a marvelous, valorous gentleman.
That is certain. Of great expedition and knowledge in the ancient wars.
I say good day, Captain Fluellen!
Gooden to your worship, good Captain James.
Captain Jamy is a marvelous, valorous gentleman.
That is certain.
How now, Captain MacMorris?
Have you quit the mines? Have the pioneers given o'er?
Oh, by the saints, 'tis ill done.
The work is give over. The trumpet sound the retreat.
By my hand I swear, and by my father's soul, 'tis ill done.
The work is give over!
I would've blowed up the town, so God save me, in an hour!
Ah, 'tis ill done.
By my hand, 'tis ill done.
Captain MacMorris, I beseech you now,
will you vouchsafe me, look you, a few disputations with you,
partly to satisfy my opinion and partly for the satisfaction of my mind?
As touching the direction of the military discipline. That is the point.
It shall be very good, good faith, good captains both,
and I would fain hear some discourse between you twain.
This is no time to discourse, so God save me.
Oh, the day is hot,
and the weather and the wars and the king and the dukes.
This is no time to discourse. The town is besieged.
Aye, the trumpet calls into the breach and we talk...
and by the Holy do nothin'!
'Tis a shame for us all, so God save me.
'Tis a shame to stand still. 'Tis a shame by me hand!
And there is throats to be cut and work to be done,
and nothin' is done, so help me God!
By the mess, ere these eyes of mine take themselves to the slumber,
I'll do good service, or I'll lie in the ground for it.
Aye, or go to death.
And I'll pay it as valorously as I may. That shall I surely do.
That is the brief and the long of it. Hmm?
Captain MacMorris, I think, look you, under your correction,
there is not many...
of your nation?
Of my nation?
What is my nation?
Is a villain a bastard and a knave and a rascal?
What is my nation?
Who talks of my nation?
Look you, if you take the matter otherwise than is meant,
Captain MacMorris, peradventure I shall think...
you do not use me with that affability...
as in discretion you ought to use me, being as good a man...
as yourself, both in the discipline of war and the derivation of my birth...
and other particularities!
I do not know you as good a man as myself,
so God save me, and I will cut off your head!
Gentlemen both, you will mistake each other!
That's a foul fault.
The town sounds a parley!
How yet resolves the governor of the town?
This is the latest parley we'll admit.
Our expectation hath this day an end.
The Dauphin, of whom succor we entreated,
returns us word his powers are not yet ready...
to raise so great a siege.
Therefore, dread King, we yield our town and lives...
to your soft mercy.
Enter our gates,
dispose of us and ours,
for we no longer are defensible.
Open your gates.
Come, brother Gloucester.
Go you and enter Harfleur.
There remain and fortify it strongly against the French.
Use mercy to them all.
For us, dear brother, the winter coming on...
and sickness growing upon our soldiers,
we will retire to Calais.
Tonight in Harfleur will we be your guest.
Tomorrow for the march are we addressed.
Alice, tu as ete en Angleterre,
et tu bien parle la langage.
- Un peu, madame. - Je te prie, m'enseignez.
Il faut que j'apprenne a parler.
Comment appelez-vous la main en anglais?
Le main? - Elle est appelee de hand.
De hand. Et les doigts?
Les doigts? Ma foi, j'oublie le doigts, mais je me souviendrai.
Les doigts. Ah, je pense qu'ils sont appeles de fingers.
Oui, de fingers.
La main, de hand. Les doigts, de fingers.
Je pense que je suis le bon ecolier.
J'ai gagne deus mots d'anglais vitement.
- Comment appelez-vous les ongles? - Les ongles.
Nous les appelons de nails.
De nails. Ecoutez. Dites-moi si je parle bien.
De hand, de fingers, de nails.
Ah! C'est bien dit, madame. Il est fort bon anglais.
- Dites-moi I'anglais pour les bras. - De arm, madame.
- Et le coude? - De elbow.
De elbow.
Je m'en fais la repetition
de tous les mots que vous m'avez appris des a present.
Ca cest trop dificile, madame, comme je pense.
Excusez-moi, Alice.
Ecoutez. De hand, de fingers, de nails, de arm, de "bilbow."
Sauf votre honneur! De elbow.
O Siegneur Dieu, je m'en oublie!
De elbow.
Comment appelez-vous le col?
- De neck. - De nick.
- Et le menton? - De chin.
De sin. Le col, de nick. Le menton, de sin.
Sauf votre honneur, en verite, vous prononcez les mots...
aussi droit que les natifs d'Angleterre.
Je ne doute point d'apprendre, par la grace de Dieu, et en peu de temps.
- N'avez vous pas deja oublie ce que je vous ai enseigne? - Non.
Je reciterai a vous promptement.
De hand, de fingers, de miles...
De nails, madame.
De nails, de arm, de "bilbow."
Sauf votre honneur, de elbow.
Ainsi dis-je. De elbow.
De nick et de sin.
Comment appelez-vous le pied et le robe?
Foot et gown.
O Seigneur Dieu! Ce sont mots de son mauvais,
corruptible, gros et impudique, et non pour les dames d'honneur d'user.
Je ne voudrais pronouncer ces mots devant les seigneurs de France...
pour tout le monde.
De foot et de cown.
Neanmoins, je reciterai un autre fois ma lecon ensemble.
De hand, de fingers, de nails,
de arm, de elbow, de nick, de sin,
de foot et de cown.
Oh, madame, c'est excellent!
C'est assez pour une fois. Allons-nous a diner.
'Tis certain he has passed the river Somme.
And 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.
Normans, but bastard Normans. Norman bastards.
- Oh! - Mort de ma vie.
If they march along, unfought withal,
then I will sell my dukedom to buy a slobbery and dirty farm...
in that nook-shotten isle of Albion.
Dieu de batailles! Where have they this mettle?
Is not their climate foggy, raw and dull,
on whom as in despite the sun looks pale, killing their fruit with frowns?
And shall our quick blood, spirited with wine, seem frosty?
By faith and honor, our madams mock at us...
and plainly say our mettle is bred out,
and they will give their bodies to the lust of English youth...
to new-store France with bastard warriors.
Where is Mountjoy the herald?
Speed him hence. Let him greet England with our sharp defiance.
Up, princes, and with spirit of honor edged,
bar Harry England that sweeps through our land...
with penance painted in the blood of Harfleur.
Go down upon him. You have power enough.
And in a captive chariot into Rouen bring him our prisoner.
This becomes the great. Sorry am I his numbers are so few,
his soldiers sick and famished in their march,
for I am sure, when he shall see our army,
he'll drop his heart into the sink of fear,
and for achievement, offer us his ransom.
Therefore, Lord Constable, haste on Mountjoy!
Prince Dauphin, you shall stay with us in Rouen.
Not so, I do beseech Your Majesty.
Be patient, for you shall remain with us.
Now forth, Lord Constable and princes all,
and quickly bring us word of England's fall.
Ohh.
- You know me by my habit. - Well, then I know thee.
- What shall I know of thee? - My master's mind.
- Unfold it. - Thus says my king:
"Say thou to Harry of England: Though we seemed dead, we did but slumber.
"Tell him we could have rebuked him at Harfleur,
"but we thought not good to bruise an injury till it were full ripe.
"Now we speak upon our cue, and our voice is imperial.
"England shall repent his folly, see his weakness and admire our sufferance.
"Bid him therefore considered of his ransom,
"which must proportion the losses we have borne, the subjects we have lost,
"the disgrace we have digested.
"For our losses, his exchequer is too poor.
"For the effusion of our blood,
the muster of his kingdom too faint a number.
"And for our disgrace, his own person,
"kneeling at our feet, but a weak and worthless satisfaction.
"To this add defiance,
"and tell him for conclusion, he hath betrayed his followers,
whose condemnation is pronounced."
So far my king and master. So much my office.
- What is thy name? I know thy quality. - Mountjoy.
Thou dost thy office fairly.
Turn thee back and tell thy king I do not seek him now,
but could be willing to march on to Calais without impeachment.
For to say the sooth, my people are with sickness much enfeebled,
my numbers lessened.
Go, therefore, tell thy master here I am.
My ransom is this frail and worthless body,
my army but a weak and sickly guard.
Yet, God before, tell him we will come on,
though France herself and such another neighbor stood in our way.
If we may pass, we will.
If we be hindered, we shall your tawny ground with your red blood discolor.
And so, Mountjoy,
fare you well.
We would not seek a battle as we are,
nor as we are we say we will not shun it.
- So tell your master. - I shall deliver so.
- There's for thy labor. - Thanks to Your Highness.
- March to the bridge. - The bridge!
It now draws toward night.
Beyond the river we'll encamp ourselves,
and on the morrow bid them march away.
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.
Fire answers fire, and through their paly flames,
each battle sees the other's umbered face.
Steed threatens steed, in high and boastful neighs,
piercing the night's dull ear.
And from the tents, the armorers,
accomplishing the knights,
with busy hammers closing rivets up,
give dreadful note of preparation.
Proud of their numbers and secure in soul,
the confident and overlusty 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.
Tut. I have the best armor of the world.
Would it were day.
You have an excellent armor, but let my horse have his due.
- It is the best horse of Europe. - Hmm.
Will it never be morning?
My Lord Orleans, my Lord High Constable, you talk of horse and armor?
You are as well provided of both as any prince in the world.
What a long night is this.
I will not change my horse for any that treads on four hooves.
He bounds from the earth. When I bestride him, I soar, I am a hawk.
He trots the air. The earth sings when he touches it.
He is of the color of nutmeg and of the heat of the ginger.
He is pure air and fire,
and all other jades you may call beasts.
It is indeed, my lord, a most absolute and excellent... horse.
It is the prince of palfreys.
His neigh is like the bidding of a monarch,
and his countenance enforces homage.
- No more, cousin. - Nay, cousin.
The man hath no wit that cannot
from the rising of the lark to the lodging of the lamb,
vary deserved praise on my palfrey.
I once writ a sonnet in his praise.
It began thus: "Wonder of nature..."
Hmm. I have heard a sonnet begin so to one's mistress.
Then did they imitate that which I composed to my courser,
for my horse is my mistress.
Methought yesterday your mistress shrewdly shook your back.
My Lord Constable, the armor that I see in your tent tonight,
are those stars or suns upon it?
Stars, my lord.
Some of them will fall tomorrow, I hope.
That may be.
Will it never be day?
I will trot tomorrow a mile, and my way shall be paved with English faces.
Who'll go hazard with me for 20 prisoners?
'Tis midnight.
I'll go arm myself.
Ha. The Dauphin longs for morning.
He longs to eat the English.
I think he will eat all he kills.
Ohh. He never did harm that I heard of.
Nor will do none tomorrow. He'll keep that good name still.
I know him to be valiant.
I was told that by one that knows him better than you.
- What's he? - Marry, he told me so himself.
And he said he cared not who knew it.
My Lord High Constable. The English lie within 1,500 paces of your tents.
Who hath measured the ground?
The Lord Grandpre.
A valiant and most expert gentleman.
Would it were day.
Hmm. Alas, poor Harry of England.
He longs not for the dawning as we do.
Ha. What a wretched and peevish fellow is this king of England...
to mope with his fat-brained followers...
so far out of his knowledge.
If the English had any apprehension, they'd run away.
That they lack, for if their heads had any intellectual armor,
they could never wear such heavy headpieces.
That island of England breeds very valiant creatures.
Their mastiffs are of unmatchable courage.
Foolish curs, that run winking into the mouth of a Russian bear...
and have their heads crushed like rotten apples.
You may as well say, "That's a valiant flea,
that dare eat his breakfast on the lip of a lion."
Just, just. And the men are like the mastiffs.
Give them great meals of beef, and iron and steel,
they'll eat like wolves and fight like devils.
But these English are shrewdly out of beef.
Then shall we find tomorrow, they've only stomachs to eat and none to fight.
Hmm.
Now is it time to arm.
Come, shall we about it?
It is now 2:00, but let me see...
By 10:00, we shall have each...
a hundred Englishmen.
The country cocks do crow,
the clocks do toll,
and the third hour of drowsy morning name.
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.
Oh, now,
who will behold the royal captain of this ruined 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.
A largess universal, like the sun,
his liberal eye doth give to everyone,
thawing cold fear, that mean and gentle all...
behold, as may unworthiness define,
a little touch of Harry...
in the night.
Gloucester.
'Tis true that we are in great danger.
The greater therefore should our courage be.
Good morrow, old Sir Thomas Erpingham.
A good soft pillow for that good white head...
were better than a churlish turf of France.
Not so, my liege. This lodging suits me better,
since I may say, "Now lie I like a king."
Lend me thy cloak, Sir Thomas.
I and my bosom must debate a while,
and then I would no other company.
The Lord in heaven bless thee, noble Harry.
God-a-mercy, old heart.
Qui vous la?
A friend.
Discuss unto me:
Art thou officer,
or art thou base, common and popular?
I'm a gentleman of a company.
Trail'st thou the puissant pike?
Even so. What are you?
Huh. As good a gentleman as the emperor.
Then you are better than the king?
Ah, the king's a bawcock and a heart of gold,
a lad of life, an imp of fame,
of parents good, of fist most valiant.
I kiss his dirty shoe,
and from heartstring, I love the lovely bully.
Eh...
- What is thy name? - Henry Le Roy.
Le Roy? A Cornish name. Art thou of Cornish crew?
No, I'm a Welshman.
- Know'st thou Fluellen? - Yes.
- Art thou his friend? - Aye, and his kinsman too.
Tell him I'll knock his leek about his head upon St. Davy's day.
Do not wear your dagger in your cap that day, lest he knock that about yours.
Oh. A fico for thee then!
I thank you. God be with you.
My name is Pistol called.
It sorts well with your fierceness.
Captain Fluellen?
Captain Fluellen!
Shh, shh! In the name of Beezlebub, speak lower.
If you will take the pains...
but to examine the wars of Pompey the Great,
you shall find, I warrant you,
there is no tiddle-taddle nor pibble-pabble in Pompey's camp.
I warrant you, you shall find the ceremonies of the wars,
and the cares of it, and the forms of it, to be otherwise.
Why, the enemy is loud. You can hear him all night.
If the enemy is an ass and a fool and a prating coxcomb,
is it meet, think you, that we should also, look you,
be an ass and a fool and a prating coxcomb?
- Shh. - In your own conscience now?
I will speak lower.
I pray you and beseech you that you will.
Though it appear a little out of fashion,
there is much care and valor in this Welshman.
Brother John Bates, be not that the morning which breaks yonder?
I think it be, but we have no great cause...
to desire the approach of day.
We see yonder the beginning of the day,
but I think we shall never see the end of it.
Who goes there?
A friend.
Under what captain serve you?
Under... Sir Thomas Erpingham.
Oh.
A good old commander and a most kind gentleman.
I pray you, what thinks he of our estate?
Even as men wrecked upon a sand...
that looked to be washed off at the next tide.
He hath not told his thought to the king?
No.
Nor it is not meet he should.
For I think the king is but a man as I am.
The violet smells to him as it doth to me.
His ceremonies laid by, in his nakedness he appears but a man.
Therefore, when he sees reasons of fears, as we do,
his fears, without doubt, be of the same relish as ours are.
Yet no man should find in him any appearance of fear,
lest he, by showing it, should dishearten his army.
He may show what outward courage he will,
but I believe, as cold a night as 'tis,
he could wish himself in Thames up to the neck.
So I would he were, and I by him, at all adventures, so we were quit here.
By my troth, I will speak my conscience of the king.
I think he would not wish himself anywhere but where he is.
Then I would he were here alone.
So should he be sure to be ransomed, and a many poor men's lives saved.
Methinks, I would not die anywhere so contented as in the king's company,
his cause being just and his quarrel honorable.
It's more than we know.
Aye.
Or more than we should seek after,
for we know enough if we know we are the king's subjects.
If his cause be wrong,
our obedience to the king wipes the crime of it out of us.
But if the cause be not good,
the king himself hath a heavy reckoning to make...
when all those legs and arms and heads...
chopped off in a battle...
shall join together at the latter day...
and cry all:
"We died at such a place."
Some swearing; some crying for a surgeon;
some upon their wives left poor behind them;
some upon the debts they owe;
some upon their children rawly left.
I'm afraid there are few die well that die in a battle.
For how can they charitably dispose of anything...
when blood is their argument?
Now, if these men do not die well,
it'll be a black matter for the king that led them to it.
Aye.
So, if a son that is by his father sent upon merchandise...
to sinfully miscarry upon the sea,
the imputation of his wickedness, by your rule,
should be imposed upon his father that sent him.
But this is not so.
The king is not bound to answer for the particular endings of his soldiers,
nor the father of his son,
for they purpose not their deaths when they purpose their services.
Every subject's duty is the king's,
but every subject's soul is his own.
Aye, 'tis certain.
Every man that dies ill, the ill is on his own head.
The king's not to answer for it.
Oh, I do not desire he should answer for me,
and yet I determine to fight lustily for him.
I myself heard the king say he would not be ransomed.
He said so to make us fight cheerfully.
But when our throats are cut, he may be ransomed and we ne'er the wiser.
If ever I live to see it, I'll never trust his word after.
That's a perilous shot out of a pop gun,
that a poor and private displeasure could do against a monarch.
You may as well go about to turn the sun to ice...
with fanning in its face with a peacock's feather.
You'll never trust his word after. Come, 'tis a foolish saying.
Your reproof is something too round.
I should be angry with you, if the time were convenient.
Be friends, you English fools. Be friends.
We have French quarrels enough,
if you could tell how to reckon.
"Never trust his word after."
Upon the king.
Let us our lives, our souls, our debts,
our careful wives, our children...
and our sins...
lay on the king.
We must bare all.
What infinite heart's ease must kings forego...
that private men enjoy.
And what have kings that privates have not too,
save ceremony.
And what art thou, thou idle ceremony,
that sufferest more of mortal griefs...
that do thy worshippers?
What drink'st thou oft,
instead of homage sweet,
but poisoned flattery?
O, be sick, great greatness,
and bid thy ceremony give thee cure.
Canst thou, when thou command'st the beggar's knee,
command the health of it?
No, thou proud dream...
that play'st so subtly with a king's repose.
I am a king that find thee,
and I know...
'tis not the orb and scepter,
crown imperial, the throne he sits on,
nor the tide of pomp that beats upon the high shore of this world.
Not all these, laid in bed majestical,
can sleep so soundly...
as the wretched slave...
who, with a body filled and vacant mind,
gets him to rest,
crammed with distressful bread.
Never sees horrid night, the child of hell,
but like a lackey from the rise to set...
sweats in the eye of Phoebus...
and all night sleeps in Elysium.
Next day, after dawn, doth rise and help Hyperion to his horse...
and follows so the ever-running year...
with profitable labor...
to his grave.
And, but for ceremony, such a wretch,
winding up days with toil and nights with sleep,
had the forehand and vantage of a king.
My lord.
Your nobles, jealous of your absence,
seek through your camp to find you.
Good old knight.
Collect them all together at my tent.
I'll be before thee.
O God of battles,
steel my soldiers' hearts.
Possess them not with fear.
Take from them now the sense of reckoning...
lest the opposed numbers...
pluck their hearts from them.
My lord.
My lord, the army stays upon your presence.
I know thy errand.
I will go with thee.
The day, my friends,
and all things...
stay for me.
The sun doth gild our armor. Up, my lords!
Montez a cheval! My horse, varlet lackey.
- Oh, brave spirit! - Via! Les eaux et terre.
- Rien puis? L'air et feu? - Cieux, cousin Orleans.
Hark how our steeds for present service neigh.
Mount them, and make incision in their hides,
that their hot blood may spin
in English eyes and quench them with superior courage.
The English are embattled, you French peers.
A very little little let us do, and all is done.
Then let the trumpets sound, the tucket sonance and the note to mount!
Come, come, away! The sun is high, and we outwear the day.
Where is the king?
The king himself is rode to view their battle.
Of fighting men they have full three score thousand.
There's five to one. Besides, they all are fresh.
God's arm strike with us, 'tis a fearful odds.
God with you, princes all. I'll to my charge.
If we no more meet till we meet in heaven,
then joyfully, my noble Westmoreland,
my dear Lord Gloucester, my good Lord Exeter,
and my kind kinsman, warriors all... adieu.
- Farewell, good Salisbury. - And good luck go with thee.
Farewell, kind lord.
That we now had here but one 10,000 of those men in England
who do not work today.
What's he that wishes so? My cousin Westmoreland?
No, my fair cousin.
If we are marked to die, we are enough to do our country loss.
If to live, the fewer men, the greater share of honor.
God's will, I pray thee, wish not one man more.
Rather proclaim it through my host...
that he which hath no stomach to this feast, let him depart!
His passport shall be drawn 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 comes safe home...
will stand a-tiptoe when this day is named...
and rouse him at the name of Crispian.
He that shall live this day and see old age...
will yearly on the vigil feast his neighbors...
and say, "Tomorrow is St. Crispian."
Then will he strip his sleeve and show his scars...
and say, "These wounds I had on Crispian's day."
Old men forget, yet all shall be forgot,
but he'll remember, with advantages,
what feats he did that day.
Then shall our names, familiar in his mouth as household words...
Harry the King, Bedford and Exeter,
Warwick and Talbot, Salisbury and Gloucester...
be in their flowing cups freshly remembered.
This story shall the good man teach his son,
and Crispin Crispian shall ne'er go by...
from this day to the ending of the world...
but we in it shall be remembered.
We few, we happy few,
we band of brothers,
for he today that sheds his blood with me shall be my brother,
be he ne'er so base.
And gentlemen in England now a-bed...
shall think themselves accursed they were not here...
and hold their manhoods cheap...
whiles any speaks that fought with us...
upon St. Crispian's day!
My lord, bestow yourself with speed.
The French are bravely
in their battles set and will with all expedience charge on us!
All things are ready if our minds be so.
Perish the man whose mind is backward now.
Thou dost now wish more help from England, coz?
God's will, my liege, would you
and I alone, without more help, could fight this battle out.
You know your places. God be with you all!
Once more I come to know thee, King Harry,
if for thy ransom thou wilt now compound...
before thy most assured overthrow.
Who hath sent thee now?
The constable of France.
I pray thee, bear my former answer back.
Bid them achieve me and then sell my bones.
Good God, why should they mock poor fellows thus?
The man that once did sell the lion's skin while the beast lived...
was killed with hunting him,
and many of our bodies shall no doubt find native graves,
upon the which, I trust, shall witness live in brass of this day's work.
And those that leave their valiant bones in France,
dying like men, though buried in your dunghills,
they shall be famed.
For there the sun shall greet them and draw their honors reeking up to heaven,
leaving their earthly parts to choke your clime,
the smell whereof shall breed a plague in France.
Let me speak proudly.
Tell the constable we are but warriors for the working day.
Our gayness and our gilt are all besmirched...
with rainy marching in the painful field.
And time hath worn us into slovenry.
But, by the mass, our hearts are in the trim!
Come thou no more for ransom, gentle Herald.
They shall have none, I swear, but these my bones,
which if they have as I will leave of them, shall yield them little.
- Tell the constable. - I shall, King Harry.
And so fare thee well.
Thou never shalt hear Herald anymore.
Now, soldiers, march away!
How thou pleasest, God, dispose the day.
Well have we done, thrice-valiant countrymen!
But all's not done. Yet keep the French the field!
Oh, everlasting shame! Let's stab ourselves.
Be these the wretches that we played at dice for?
Is this the king we sent to for his ransom?
Shame, and eternal shame.
Nothing but shame. Let's die in honor. Once more back again!
We are enough yet living
in the field to smother up the English in our throngs,
- if any order might be thought upon. - The devil take order now.
I'll to the throng. Let life be short, else shame will be too long.
God's plud!
Kill the boys and the luggage.
'Tis expressly against the law of arms.
'Tis as arrant a piece of knavery, mark you now, as can be offered.
In your conscience now, is it not?
'Tis certain there's not a boy left alive.
The cowardly rascals that ran from the battle have done this slaughter.
Here comes His Majesty.
I was not angry since I came to France,
until this instant.
Take a trumpet, Herald. Ride thou unto the horsemen on yon hill.
If they won't fight us, bid them come down or void the field.
They do offend our sight!
Here comes the herald of the French, my liege.
His eyes are humbler than they used to be.
God's will. What means this, Herald?
Com'st thou again for ransom?
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.
The day is yours.
Praised be God...
and not our strength for it.
What is this castle called that stands hard by?
We call it Agincourt.
Then call we this the field of Agincourt,
fought on the day of Crispin Crispianus.
Here is the number of the slaughtered French.
This note doth tell me of 10,000 French that in the field lie slain.
Where is the number of our English dead?
Edward, the Duke of York,
the Earl of Suffolk,
Sir Richard Ketly,
Davy Gam, esquire.
And of all other men,
but 5 and 20 score.
Oh, God, thy arm was here.
- 'Tis wonderful. - Come.
Go we in procession to the village.
Let there be sung "Non Nobis" and "Te Deum."
And then to Calais,
and to England then,
where ne'er from France arrived...
Nay, that's right, but why wear you your leek today?
St. Davy's day is past.
There is occasions and causes why and wherefore in all things, Captain Gower.
I will tell you as my friend, Captain Gower.
The rascally, beggarly, lousy knave Pistol,
which you and yourself and all the world know to be no better...
than a fellow, look you, of no merits...
He is come to me and bring me bread and salt yesterday, look you,
and bid me eat my leek.
It was in a place where I could not breed no contention with him.
But I will be so bold as wear it in my cap till I see him once again.
And then I will tell him a little piece of my desires.
Why, 'tis a gull, a fool, a rogue,
that now and then goes to the wars to grace himself...
at his return into London, under the form of a soldier,
and what such of a camp can do among foaming bottles and ale-washed wits...
is wonderful to be thought of.
Here he comes,
swelling like a turkey-cock.
'Tis no matter for his swellings nor his turkey-cocks.
God bless you, Pistol, you scurvy, lousy knave. God bless you!
Ha! Art thou bedlam?
Hence, I am qualmish at the smell of leek.
I beseech you heartily, scurvy, lousy knave,
to eat, look you, this leek.
Not for Cadwallader and all his goats.
- There is one goat for you! - Aah!
Will you be so good as eat it?
Base Trojan, thou shalt die!
- You say very true, when God's will is. - Aye!
I will desire you to live in the meantime and eat your victuals.
Come, there is sauce for it!
If you can mock a leek, you can eat a leek.
Bite, I pray you.
- Must I bite? - Out of doubt, and out of question too.
By this leek, I will most horribly revenge!
- Brr! - I eat.
I eat. I swear.
Nay, pray you, throw none away.
The skin is good for your broken coxcomb.
When you take occasions to see leeks hereafter, mock at 'em, that is all!
- Good. - Aye, leeks is good.
Hold you.
- Here is a penny to heal your head. - Me, a penny?
Yes, verily, and in truth you shall take it,
or I have another leek in my pocket which you shall eat!
God by you and keep you and... heal your head.
Brrrr!
All hell shall stir for this.
Go to. You are a counterfeit cowardly knave.
You thought, because he could not speak English in the native garb,
that he therefore could not handle an English cudgel.
But you find it otherwise, and henceforth,
let a Welsh correction teach you a good English condition.
Fare ye well.
Doth fortune play the strumpet with me now?
News have I that my Nell lies dead...
in the hospital...
of the malady of France.
And there my rendezvous is quite cut off.
Old do I wax,
and from my weary limbs honor is cudgelled.
Well... bawd I'll turn,
and something lean to cutpurse...
of quick hand.
To England will I steal,
and there I'll steal.
And patches will I get unto these scars...
and swear I got them in these present wars.
Peace to this meeting, wherefore we are met.
And to our brother France and to our sister,
health and fair time of day.
Joy and good wishes to our most fair and princely cousin Katherine.
As a branch and member of this royalty, we do salute you,
Duke of Burgundy.
And princes French and peers,
health to you all.
Right joyous are we to behold your face,
most worthy brother England, fairly met.
So are you, princes English, every one.
So happy be the issue, brother England,
of this good day and of this gracious meeting.
As we are now glad...
to behold your eyes,
your eyes which hitherto have borne in them against the French...
that met them in their bent, the fatal balls of murdering basilisks.
The venom of such looks we fairly hope have lost their quality,
and that this day shall change all griefs and quarrels...
into love.
To cry amen to that, thus we appear.
My duty to you both, on equal love,
great kings of France and England.
Since that my office hath so far prevailed...
that face to face and royal eye to eye you have assembled,
let it not disgrace me if I demand before this royal view,
why that the naked, poor and mangled peace,
dear nurse of arts,
of plenties and of joyful births,
should not, in this best garden of the world,
our fertile France,
put up her lovely visage?
Alas, she has from France too long been chased...
and all her husbandry doth lie on heaps,
corrupting in its own fertility.
Her vine,
the merry cheerer of the heart,
unpruned, dies.
Her hedges even-pleached,
put forth disordered twigs.
Her fallow leas,
the darnel, hemlock and rank fumitory,
doth root upon, while that the coulter rusts...
that should deracinate such savagery.
The even mead, that erst brought sweetly forth...
the freckled cowslip,
burnet and green clover,
wanting the scythe, all uncorrected rank,
conceives by idleness.
And nothing teems but hateful docks,
rough thistles, kecksies, burs,
losing both beauty and utility.
Even so our houses and ourselves and children...
have lost, or do not learn for want of time,
the sciences that should become our country,
but grow like savages, as soldiers will,
that nothing do but meditate on blood,
to swearing and stern looks,
diffused attire...
and everything that seems...
unnatural.
Which to reduce into her former favor,
you are assembled.
Then, Duke of Burgundy, you must gain that peace...
with full accord to all our just demands.
I have but with a cursory eye o'erglanced the articles.
Pleaseth your grace to appoint some of your council...
presently to sit with us?
We will certainly pass our accept and peremptory answer.
Brother, we shall.
Will you, fair sister, go with the princes...
or stay here with us?
Our gracious brother, I will go with them.
Happily, a woman's voice may do some good...
when articles too nicely urged be stood on.
Yet leave our cousin, Katherine, here with us.
She hath good leave.
Fair Katherine,
and most fair,
will you vouchsafe to teach a soldier...
terms such as will enter at a lady's ear...
and plead his love-suit to her gentle heart?
Your Majesty shall mock at me.
I cannot speak your England.
Oh, fair Katherine, if you will love me soundly with your French heart,
I will be glad to hear you confess it brokenly with your English tongue.
Do you... like me, Kate?
Pardonnez-moi.
I cannot tell what is..."like me."
An angel is like you, Kate,
and you are like an angel.
Que dit-il? Que je suis semblable a les anges?
Oui, vraiment, sauf votre grace, ainsi dit-il.
O bon Dieu. Les langues des hommes sont pleines de tromperies.
What says she, fair one? That the tongues of men are full of deceits?
Oui. That the tongues of the mens...
is be full of deceits.
I'faith, Kate, I am glad thou canst speak no better English,
for if thou couldst, thou wouldst find me such a plain king...
that thou wouldst think I had sold my farm to buy my crown.
I know no ways to mince it in love,
but directly to say, "I love you."
Give me your answer, and so clap hands and a bargain.
How say you, lady?
Sauf votre honneur, me understand well.
If you put me to verses or to dance for your sake, Kate,
why, you undo me.
If I might buffet for my love, or bound my horse for her favors,
I could lay on like a butcher and sit like a jackanapes, never off.
But before God, Kate, I cannot look greenly...
nor gasp out my eloquence.
Nor have I no cunning in protestation.
If thou canst love a fellow of this temper, Kate,
that never looks in his glass for the love of anything he sees there,
whose face is not worth sunburning,
take me.
If not,
to say to thee that I shall die is true...
but for thy love,
by the Lord... no.
Yet I love thee too.
And while thou livest, dear Kate,
take a fellow of plain constancy.
For these fellows of infinite tongue,
that can rhyme themselves into ladies' favors,
they do always reason themselves out again.
A speaker is but a prater, a rhyme is but a ballad.
A straight back will stoop, a black beard will turn white.
A fair face will wither, a full eye will wax hollow.
But a good heart, Kate,
is the sun and the moon.
If thou wouldst have such a one,
take me.
And take me, take a soldier.
Take a soldier,
take a king.
And what sayest thou then to my love?
Speak, my fair, and fairly, I pray thee.
Is it possible that I should love...
the enemy of France?
No, Kate, but in loving me, you would love the friend of France,
for I love France so well that I will not part with a village of it.
And, Kate, when France is mine, and I am yours,
then yours is France, and you are mine.
I cannot tell what is that.
No, Kate?
I will tell thee in French, which I am sure will hang upon my tongue...
like a newly-married wife about her husband's neck,
hardly to be shook off.
Uh... Je...
Quand...
sur le possession de France,
et quand vous avez le possession de moi...
Uhh...
Donc votre est France et vous etes mienne.
I shall never move thee in French...
unless it be to laugh at me.
Sauf votre honneur, le Francois
que vous parlez, il est meilleur que l'Anglois lequel je parle.
No, faith, it's not, Kate.
Thy speaking of my tongue, and I thine,
must needs be granted to be much alike.
But, Kate, dost thou understand thus much English?
Canst thou... love me?
I cannot tell.
Can any of your neighbors tell, Kate? I'll ask them.
Come, I know thou lovest me,
and at night, when you are come into your chamber,
you will question this gentlewoman about me.
And I know, Kate, you will to her dispraise those parts in me...
which you love with your heart.
But, good Kate,
mock me mercifully, the rather gentle princess,
because I love thee...
cruelly.
What sayest thou, my fair flower-de-luce?
La plus belle Katherine du monde,
mon tres cher et devin deesse?
Your Majesty have false French enough to deceive...
the most sage demoiselle that is in France.
Now fie upon my false French.
But mine honor, in true English, I love thee, Kate.
By which honor, though I dare not swear, thou lovest me,
yet my blood begins to flatter me thou dost.
Put off your maiden blushes,
avouch the thoughts of your heart with the looks of an empress,
take me by the hand and say, "Harry of England, I am thine."
Which word thou shalt no sooner bless mine ear withal,
but I will tell thee aloud, "England is thine, Ireland is thine,
France is thine, and Henry Plantagenet is thine."
Therefore, queen of all, Katherine,
break thy mind to me in broken English.
Wilt thou have me?
That is as it shall please the roi mon pere.
Nay, it shall please him well, Kate.
It shall please him, Kate.
Then it shall also content me.
Ah, upon that I kiss your hand and call you my queen.
- Oh!- Laissez, mon seigneur, laissez, laissez!
Ma foi, je ne veux point que vous abaissez votre grandeur...
en baisant la main d'une indigne serviteur.
Excusez-moi, je vous supplie, mon tres puissant seigneur.
Oh. Then I will kiss your lips, Kate.
Ohh!
Les dames et demoiselles pour etre baisees devant leur noces,
il n'est pas la coutume de France.
Madame, my interpreter, what says she?
That it is not the fashion for the ladies of France...
Oh, I cannot tell what is baiser in English.
To kiss?
Your Majesty entendre better que moi.
It is not the fashion for the maids in France to kiss before they are married?
Oui, oui, vraiment.
Oh, Kate.
Nice customs courtesy to great kings.
Dear Kate, you and I cannot be confined...
within the weak list of a country's fashion.
We are the makers of manners, Kate.
Therefore, patiently...
and yielding.
You have witchcraft in your lips... Kate.
God save Your Majesty.
My royal cousin, teach you our princess English?
I would have her learn, my fair cousin,
how perfectly I love her, and that is good English.
- Ahh. - Shall Kate be my wife?
Take her, fair son,
that the contending kingdoms of France and England,
whose very shores look pale...
with envy of each other's happiness,
may cease their hatred,
and never war advance his bleeding sword...
'twixt England and fair France.
Amen.
Thus far, with rough and all-unable pen,
our bending author hath pursued the story,
in little room confining mighty men,
mangling by starts...
the full course of their glory.
Small time, but in that small most greatly lived...
this star of England.
Fortune made his sword.
And for his sake,
in your fair minds,
let this acceptance take.