Original
Modern English
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 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, But freshly looks and over-bears attaint With cheerful semblance and sweet majesty; That every wretch, pining and pale before, Beholding him, plucks comfort from his looks: A largess universal like the sun His liberal eye doth give to every one, Thawing cold fear, that mean and gentle all, Behold, as may unworthiness define, A little touch of Harry in the night. And so our scene must to the battle fly; Where--O for pity!--we shall much disgrace With four or five most vile and ragged foils, Right ill-disposed in brawl ridiculous, The name of Agincourt. Yet sit and see, Minding true things by what their mockeries be.
Now imagine a time When quiet whispers and the dark night Fill the whole universe. From one camp to another, through the thick darkness The quiet hum of both armies is barely heard, So that the watchmen almost hear The secret whispers of each other’s posts: Fire answers fire, and through their pale flames Each side sees the other’s shadowed face; Horses threaten horses, with proud, boastful whinnies Piercing the night’s dull ear, and from the tents The blacksmiths, preparing the knights’ armor, With busy hammers fastening the rivets, Make a terrifying sound of preparation: The roosters crow, the bells toll, And the third hour of the sleepy morning calls. Proud of their numbers and feeling safe, The confident and overly eager French Treat the lowly English like they’re playing a game of dice; And mock the slow, limping night Who, like a nasty and ugly witch, drags So slowly away. The poor condemned English, Like sacrifices, sit by their watchfires Waiting patiently and inwardly reflecting On the danger of the coming morning, their sad expressions And thin, worn faces and battle-scarred clothes Present them like ghosts to the watching moon. O now, who will see The royal leader of this broken band Walking from one watch to another, from tent to tent, Let him cry ‘Praise and glory on his head!’ For he goes out to visit all his troops. He greets them with a good morning and a modest smile And calls them brothers, friends, and countrymen. On his royal face, there’s no sign Of how terrifying the army surrounding him is; Nor does he let a hint of weariness From the long, watchful night show, But instead looks fresh and hides his exhaustion With a cheerful appearance and noble majesty; So that every poor, pale soldier, Looking at him, takes comfort from his face: His generous gaze is like the sun, Giving warmth to everyone, Melting cold fear, making all men feel equal, And showing that even the unworthy can feel A little of King Henry’s strength in the night. And now our scene must shift to the battle; Where--Oh, for pity’s sake!--we will see much disgrace With four or five of the most vile, ragged fighters, Ill-prepared for a ridiculous brawl, Besmirching the name of Agincourt. But stay and watch, And you’ll see the truth through their foolishness.