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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: for, as I am a soldier, A name that in my thoughts becomes me best, If I begin the battery once again, I will not leave the half-achieved Harfleur Till in her ashes she lie buried. The gates of mercy shall be all shut up, And the flesh’d soldier, rough and hard of heart, In liberty of bloody hand shall range With conscience wide as hell, mowing like grass Your fresh-fair virgins and your flowering infants. What is it then to me, if impious war, Array’d in flames like to the prince of fiends, Do, with his smirch’d complexion, all fell feats Enlink’d to waste and desolation? What is’t to me, when you yourselves are cause, If your pure maidens fall into the hand Of hot and forcing violation? What rein can hold licentious wickedness When down the hill he holds his fierce career? We may as bootless spend our vain command Upon the enraged soldiers in their spoil As send precepts to the leviathan To come ashore. Therefore, you men of Harfleur, Take pity of your town and of your people, Whiles yet my soldiers are in my command; Whiles yet the cool and temperate wind of grace O’erblows the filthy and contagious clouds Of heady murder, spoil and villany. If not, why, in a moment look to see The blind and bloody soldier with foul hand Defile the locks of your shrill-shrieking daughters; Your fathers taken by the silver beards, And their most reverend heads dash’d to the walls, Your naked infants spitted upon pikes, Whiles the mad mothers with their howls confused Do break the clouds, as did the wives of Jewry At Herod’s bloody-hunting slaughtermen. What say you? will you yield, and this avoid, Or, guilty in defence, be thus destroy’d?
What has the governor of the town decided? This is the last parley we will allow; Therefore, surrender yourselves to our mercy; Or, like men who are proud to face destruction, challenge us to our worst: because, as I am a soldier, A title that suits me best in my thoughts, If I start the attack again, I won’t stop until the half-destroyed Harfleur is reduced to ashes. The gates of mercy will be closed, And the soldier, ruthless and hard-hearted, Will have free rein to kill with a conscience as empty as hell, mowing down like grass Your young virgins and your blossoming infants. What does it matter to me if wicked war, dressed in flames like the devil himself, performs all its terrible actions, linked to ruin and destruction? What does it matter to me when you are the cause, if your pure young women fall into the hands of violent assault? What can stop immoral wickedness when it speeds downhill with fury? We might as well waste our commands on enraged soldiers in their rampage as try to order the giant sea monster to come to shore. So, men of Harfleur, Have pity on your town and your people, While my soldiers are still under my command; While the calm and temperate wind of mercy still blows away the filthy and contagious clouds of murder, destruction, and villainy. If not, then, in an instant, expect to see the blind and bloody soldier with foul hands violate your screaming daughters; your fathers taken by their gray beards, and their honored heads dashed against the walls, your naked infants impaled on spikes, while mad mothers, with their howls and confusion, break the air, like the Jewish wives did at Herod’s bloody massacre. What do you say? Will you surrender and avoid this, or, guilty in defense, be destroyed this way?
Our expectation hath this day an end: The Dauphin, whom of succors we entreated, Returns us that his powers are yet not ready To raise so great a siege. Therefore, great king, We yield our town and lives to thy soft mercy. Enter our gates; dispose of us and ours; For we no longer are defensible.
Our wait for help ends today: The Dauphin, whom we asked for assistance, Tells us his forces aren’t ready yet To lift such a huge siege. So, great king, We surrender our town and our lives to your mercy. Enter our gates; do with us as you will; For we can no longer defend ourselves.
Open your gates. Come, uncle Exeter, Go you and enter Harfleur; there remain, And fortify it strongly ’gainst the French: Use mercy to them all. For us, dear uncle, The winter coming on and sickness growing Upon our soldiers, we will retire to Calais. To-night in Harfleur we will be your guest; To-morrow for the march are we addrest.
Open your gates. Come, uncle Exeter, Go and take Harfleur; stay there, And strengthen it against the French: Show mercy to them all. For us, dear uncle, With winter coming and sickness spreading Among our soldiers, we will withdraw to Calais. Tonight, we’ll stay in Harfleur as your guests; Tomorrow, we’ll prepare for the march.