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Gloucester, ’tis true that we are in great danger; The greater therefore should our courage be. Good morrow, brother Bedford. God Almighty! There is some soul of goodness in things evil, Would men observingly distil it out. For our bad neighbour makes us early stirrers, Which is both healthful and good husbandry: Besides, they are our outward consciences, And preachers to us all, admonishing That we should dress us fairly for our end. Thus may we gather honey from the weed, And make a moral of the devil himself.
Gloucester, it’s true that we are in great danger; So our courage must be all the greater. Good morning, brother Bedford. God Almighty! There is some good even in evil things, If men would carefully figure it out. Because our bad neighbor makes us wake up early, Which is both healthy and good farming: Also, they are our outer consciences, And preachers to us all, reminding That we should prepare ourselves well for our end. This way we can gather something good from the bad, And make a lesson even from the devil himself.
Good morrow, old Sir Thomas Erpingham: A good soft pillow for that good white head Were better than a churlish turf of France.
Good morning, old Sir Thomas Erpingham: A good soft pillow for that good white head Would be better than a rough patch of dirt in France.
Not so, my liege: this lodging likes me better, Since I may say ’Now lie I like a king.’
Not so, my king: I prefer this bed, Since I can say, ’Now I lie like a king.’
’Tis good for men to love their present pains Upon example; so the spirit is eased: And when the mind is quicken’d, out of doubt, The organs, though defunct and dead before, Break up their drowsy grave and newly move, With casted slough and fresh legerity. Lend me thy cloak, Sir Thomas. Brothers both, Commend me to the princes in our camp; Do my good morrow to them, and anon Desire them an to my pavilion.
It’s good for men to accept their present troubles By example; so the spirit is relieved: And when the mind is revived, without a doubt, The body, though previously stiff and tired, Breaks out of its sleepy state and moves again, Shedding its old skin and feeling light. Lend me your cloak, Sir Thomas. Both of you, Give my greetings to the princes in our camp; Say good morning to them, and soon Ask them to come to my tent.
We shall, my liege.
We will, my king.
Shall I attend your grace?
Should I stay to serve your grace?
No, my good knight; Go with my brothers to my lords of England: I and my bosom must debate awhile, And then I would no other company.
No, my good knight; Go with my brothers to my lords of England: I need some time alone to think, And I don’t want anyone else with me right now.
The Lord in heaven bless thee, noble Harry!
May the Lord bless you, noble Harry!
God-a-mercy, old heart! thou speak’st cheerfully.
God bless you, old heart! you speak so cheerfully.
Qui va la?
Who’s there?
A friend.
A friend.
Discuss unto me; art thou officer? Or art thou base, common and popular?
Tell me, are you an officer? Or are you just a regular, common person?
I am a gentleman of a company.
I’m a gentleman from a group.
Trail’st thou the puissant pike?
Do you carry the powerful spear?
Even so. What are you?
Yes, I do. Who are you?
As good a gentleman as the emperor.
I’m as good a gentleman as the emperor.
Then you are a better than the king.
Then you’re better than the king.
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 heart-string I love the lovely bully. What is thy name?
The king’s a fine fellow, and has a heart of gold, He’s full of life, and famous; He comes from good parents, and is very brave. I kiss his dirty shoe, and from the bottom of my heart I love the charming bully. What’s your name?
Harry le Roy.
Harry the King.
Le Roy! a Cornish name: art thou of Cornish crew?
The King! That’s a Cornish name: are you from Cornwall?
No, I am a Welshman.
No, I’m Welsh.
Know’st thou Fluellen?
Do you know Fluellen?
Yes.
Yes.
Tell him, I’ll knock his leek about his pate Upon Saint Davy’s day.
Tell him, I’ll hit his leek over his head On Saint David’s Day.
Do not you wear your dagger in your cap that day, lest he knock that about yours.
Don’t you wear your dagger in your hat that day, Or he might knock it off your head.
Art thou his friend?
Are you his friend?
And his kinsman too.
And his relative too.
The figo for thee, then!
Forget you then!
I thank you: God be with you!
Thank you: may God be with you!
My name is Pistol call’d.
My name’s Pistol, by the way.
It sorts well with your fierceness.
It suits you, with your fierceness.
Captain Fluellen!
Captain Fluellen!
So! in the name of Jesu Christ, speak lower. It is the greatest admiration of the universal world, when the true and aunchient prerogatifes and laws of the wars is not kept: if you would take the pains but to examine the wars of Pompey the Great, you shall find, I warrant you, that there is no tiddle toddle 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, and the sobriety of it, and the modesty of it, to be otherwise.
What! In the name of Jesus Christ, speak more quietly. It’s the greatest shock to the whole world when the true and ancient rules and laws of war aren’t followed: if you’d just take the time to look at the wars of Pompey the Great, you’ll find, I promise you, there’s no nonsense or chatter in Pompey’s camp; I promise you, you’ll find the ceremonies of war, and its burdens, and its rules, and its seriousness, and its modesty, to be very different.
Why, the enemy is loud; you hear him all night.
But 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? in your own conscience, now?
If the enemy is an idiot, a fool, and a noisy idiot, do you think it’s right, huh, that we should also, look you, be idiots, fools, and noisy idiots? Honestly, do you think that?
I will speak lower.
I’ll speak more quietly.
I pray you and beseech you that you will.
Please, I beg you to do so.
Though it appear a little out of fashion, There is much care and valour in this Welshman.
Although it might seem a bit old-fashioned, there is much care and bravery in this Welshman.
Brother John Bates, is not that the morning which breaks yonder?
Brother John Bates, isn’t that the morning over there?
I think it be: but we have no great cause to desire the approach of day.
I think it is, but we don’t really have much reason to want the day to come.
We see yonder the beginning of the day, but I think we shall never see the end of it. Who goes there?
We can see the start of the day over there, but I don’t think we’ll ever see the end of it. Who’s there?
A friend.
A friend.
Under what captain serve you?
Under what captain do you serve?
Under Sir Thomas Erpingham.
Under Sir Thomas Erpingham.
A good old commander and a most kind gentleman: I pray you, what thinks he of our estate?
A good old commander and a very kind gentleman: I ask you, what does he think of our situation?
Even as men wrecked upon a sand, that look to be washed off the next tide.
Just like men stranded on a sandbank, who expect to be swept away by the next wave.
He hath not told his thought to the king?
Has he not told the king what he thinks?
No; nor it is not meet he should. For, though I speak it to you, I think the king is but a man, as I am: the violet smells to him as it doth to me: the element shows to him as it doth to me; all his senses have but human conditions: his ceremonies laid by, in his nakedness he appears but a man; and though his affections are higher mounted than ours, yet, when they stoop, they stoop with the like wing. Therefore when he sees reason of fears, as we do, his fears, out of doubt, be of the same relish as ours are: yet, in reason, no man should possess him with any appearance of fear, lest he, by showing it, should dishearten his army.
No; and it’s not proper that he should. For, even though I tell you this, I think the king is just a man, like me: the violet smells the same to him as it does to me; the world looks the same to him as it does to me; all his senses are just human: without his royal duties, he’s just a man; and though his emotions might be higher than ours, when they drop, they drop just like ours. So when he feels fear, like we do, his fear is just like ours: yet, reasonably, no one should show him any sign of fear, or he might, by showing it, discourage 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; and so I would he were, and I by him, at all adventures, so we were quit here.
He can show as much outward courage as he wants; but I believe that, as cold as it is tonight, he’d wish he were up to his neck in the Thames; and so would I, if I were with him, anywhere, as long as we could leave here.
By my troth, I will speak my conscience of the king: I think he would not wish himself any where but where he is.
Honestly, I’ll speak my mind about the king: I don’t think he’d want to be anywhere else 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.
Then I wish he were here by himself; that way he’d be sure to be ransomed, and many poor men’s lives would be saved.
I dare say you love him not so ill, to wish him here alone, howsoever you speak this to feel other men’s minds: methinks I could not die any where so contented as in the king’s company; his cause being just and his quarrel honourable.
I’d say you don’t dislike him that much, to wish him here alone, even if you’re saying that to test how others feel: I don’t think I could die anywhere happier than in the king’s company, his cause being just and his quarrel honorable.
That’s more than we know.
That’s more than we know.
Ay, or more than we should seek after; for we know enough, if we know we are the kings subjects: if his cause be wrong, our obedience to the king wipes the crime of it out of us.
Yeah, or more than we should try to find out; because we know enough, if we know we are the king’s subjects: if his cause is wrong, our obedience to the king removes the guilt from 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 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 am afeard there are few die well that die in a battle; for how can they charitably dispose of any thing, when blood is their argument? Now, if these men do not die well, it will be a black matter for the king that led them to it; whom to disobey were against all proportion of subjection.
But if the cause isn’t right, the king himself has a big debt to pay, when all those legs, arms, and heads, chopped off in battle, will come together at the end of the world and say, "We died at such-and-such a place;" some swearing, some crying for a doctor, some mourning their wives left poor behind them, some regretting their unpaid debts, some lamenting their children left helpless. I’m afraid not many people die well in battle; because how can they make peace with anything, when blood is their argument? Now, if these men don’t die well, it will be a dark matter for the king who led them to it; disobeying him would go against all reason of loyalty.
So, if a son that is by his father sent about merchandise do sinfully miscarry upon the sea, the imputation of his wickedness by your rule, should be imposed upon his father that sent him: or if a servant, under his master’s command transporting a sum of money, be assailed by robbers and die in many irreconciled iniquities, you may call the business of the master the author of the servant’s damnation: but this is not so: the king is not bound to answer the particular endings of his soldiers, the father of his son, nor the master of his servant; for they purpose not their death, when they purpose their services. Besides, there is no king, be his cause never so spotless, if it come to the arbitrement of swords, can try it out with all unspotted soldiers: some peradventure have on them the guilt of premeditated and contrived murder; some, of beguiling virgins with the broken seals of perjury; some, making the wars their bulwark, that have before gored the gentle bosom of peace with pillage and robbery. Now, if these men have defeated the law and outrun native punishment, though they can outstrip men, they have no wings to fly from God: war is his beadle, war is vengeance; so that here men are punished for before-breach of the king’s laws in now the king’s quarrel: where they feared the death, they have borne life away; and where they would be safe, they perish: then if they die unprovided, no more is the king guilty of their damnation than he was before guilty of those impieties for the which they are now visited. Every subject’s duty is the king’s; but every subject’s soul is his own. Therefore should every soldier in the wars do as every sick man in his bed, wash every mote out of his conscience: and dying so, death is to him advantage; or not dying, the time was blessedly lost wherein such preparation was gained: and in him that escapes, it were not sin to think that, making God so free an offer, He let him outlive that day to see His greatness and to teach others how they should prepare.
So, if a son is sent by his father to do business and he sins and perishes at sea, by your reasoning, his father would be blamed for his son’s wickedness: or if a servant, under his master’s orders carrying a sum of money, is attacked by robbers and dies in many unrepentant sins, you would say that the master’s business caused the servant’s damnation: but this isn’t true: the king is not responsible for the individual fate of his soldiers, any more than a father is for his son, or a master is for his servant; because they don’t plan for their deaths when they plan their service. Besides, no king, no matter how just his cause, can fight with only completely innocent soldiers: some might be guilty of premeditated murder; some of deceiving virgins with false promises; some of using war as a shield, when they’ve already torn apart the peaceful world with theft and violence. Now, if these men have escaped the law and avoided punishment, even if they outrun men, they have no wings to escape God: war is his bailiff, war is vengeance; so here men are punished for their earlier breaking of the king’s laws in the king’s war: where they feared death, they carried life with them; and where they wanted safety, they died: so if they die unprepared, the king is no more guilty of their damnation than he was before guilty of those crimes that have now caught up with them. Every subject’s duty is the king’s; but every subject’s soul is his own. Therefore, every soldier in war should do as a sick man in his bed does, clear his conscience of every sin: and dying that way, death is to him a gain; or if he doesn’t die, the time was well spent preparing for it: and for those who survive, it wouldn’t be wrong to think that, by making God such a free offer, He lets them outlive the day, to see His greatness and teach others how they should prepare.
’Tis certain, every man that dies ill, the ill upon his own head, the king is not to answer it.
It’s certain, every man who dies badly, the badness is on his own head; the king doesn’t have to answer for it.
But I do not desire he should answer for me; and yet I determine to fight lustily for him.
But I don’t want him to answer for me; and yet I’m determined to fight hard for him.
I myself heard the king say he would not be ransomed.
I heard the king say himself that he wouldn’t be ransomed.
Ay, he said so, to make us fight cheerfully: but when our throats are cut, he may be ransomed, and we ne’er the wiser.
Yes, he said that, to make us fight bravely: but when our throats are cut, he might be ransomed, and we’ll never know.
If I live to see it, I will never trust his word after.
If I live to see it, I’ll never trust his word again.
You pay him then. That’s a perilous shot out of an elder-gun, that a poor and private displeasure can do against a monarch! you may as well go about to turn the sun to ice with fanning in his face with a peacock’s feather. You’ll never trust his word after! come, ’tis a foolish saying.
So you’re going to pay him. That’s a dangerous move, trying to harm a king with a small personal grudge! It’s like trying to turn the sun to ice by fanning it with a peacock feather. You’ll never trust him again after that! Come on, it’s a foolish thing to say.
Your reproof is something too round: I should be angry with you, if the time were convenient.
Your criticism is a bit too blunt: I’d be angry with you, if it were the right time for it.
Let it be a quarrel between us, if you live.
Let’s make this a fight between us, if you’re still alive.
I embrace it.
I accept.
How shall I know thee again?
How will I recognize you again?
Give me any gage of thine, and I will wear it in my bonnet: then, if ever thou darest acknowledge it, I will make it my quarrel.
Give me anything of yours, and I’ll wear it in my hat. Then, if you ever come to me and say, “This is mine,” I’ll take it as a challenge.
Here’s my glove: give me another of thine.
Here’s my glove: give me one of yours in return.
There.
Here.
This will I also wear in my cap: if ever thou come to me and say, after to-morrow, ’This is my glove,’ by this hand, I will take thee a box on the ear.
I’ll wear this in my hat too. If you ever come to me and say, after tomorrow, “This is my glove,” by this hand, I’ll slap you across the face.
If ever I live to see it, I will challenge it.
If I live to see that day, I’ll accept your challenge.
Thou darest as well be hanged.
You might as well be hanged.
Well. I will do it, though I take thee in the king’s company.
Fine. I’ll do it, even if I catch you in the company of the king.
Keep thy word: fare thee well.
Keep your promise: take care.
Be friends, you English fools, be friends: we have French quarrels enow, if you could tell how to reckon.
Stop fighting, you English idiots, stop fighting: we’ve got enough French enemies as it is, if you knew how to count them.
Indeed, the French may lay twenty French crowns to one, they will beat us; for they bear them on their shoulders: but it is no English treason to cut French crowns, and to-morrow the king himself will be a clipper.
Actually, the French could bet twenty to one that they’ll beat us, because they’ve got it all on their side. But it’s not treason in England to clip French coins, and tomorrow, the king himself will be clipping them.
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 bear all. O hard condition, Twin-born with greatness, subject to the breath Of every fool, whose sense no more can feel But his own wringing! What infinite heart’s-ease Must kings neglect, that private men enjoy! And what have kings, that privates have not too, Save ceremony, save general ceremony? And what art thou, thou idle ceremony? What kind of god art thou, that suffer’st more Of mortal griefs than do thy worshippers? What are thy rents? what are thy comings in? O ceremony, show me but thy worth! What is thy soul of adoration? Art thou aught else but place, degree and form, Creating awe and fear in other men? Wherein thou art less happy being fear’d Than they in fearing. What drink’st thou oft, instead of homage sweet, But poison’d flattery? O, be sick, great greatness, And bid thy ceremony give thee cure! Think’st thou the fiery fever will go out With titles blown from adulation? Will it give place to flexure and low bending? 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 balm, the sceptre and the ball, The sword, the mace, the crown imperial, The intertissued robe of gold and pearl, The farced title running ’fore the king, The throne he sits on, nor the tide of pomp That beats upon the high shore of this world, No, not all these, thrice-gorgeous ceremony, Not all these, laid in bed majestical, Can sleep so soundly as the wretched slave, Who with a body fill’d and vacant mind Gets him to rest, cramm’d 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 labour, to his grave: And, but for ceremony, such a wretch, Winding up days with toil and nights with sleep, Had the fore-hand and vantage of a king. The slave, a member of the country’s peace, Enjoys it; but in gross brain little wots What watch the king keeps to maintain the peace, Whose hours the peasant best advantages.
It’s up to the king! Let us give our lives, our souls, Our debts, our worried wives, Our children and our sins to the king! We must bear it all. Oh, what a tough situation, Born along with greatness, vulnerable to the opinions Of every fool, whose mind only cares About his own pain! What amazing peace of mind Do kings miss out on, that ordinary men enjoy! And what do kings have that regular people don’t, Except ceremony, except public ceremony? And what are you, you pointless ceremony? What kind of god are you, that endures more Of human suffering than your worshippers? What are your profits? What are your sources of income? Oh ceremony, show me your true worth! What is your soul made of? Do you have any purpose Beyond position, rank, and outward appearance, Making others feel awe and fear? In this, you are less happy, being feared Than those who fear you. What do you drink often, instead of sweet praise, But poisoned flattery? Oh, be sick, great greatness, And tell your ceremony to heal you! Do you think a fiery fever will go away With titles blown from empty praise? Will it give way to bowing and low bending? Can you, when you order the beggar to kneel, Command its health? No, you proud illusion, That plays so cleverly with a king’s peace; I am a king who sees through you, and I know It’s not the balm, the scepter, or the orb, The sword, the mace, the imperial crown, The golden and pearl-studded robe, The title that runs before the king, The throne he sits on, nor the tide of show That washes against the high shore of this world, No, not all of these, magnificent ceremony, Not all of these, lying in a royal bed, Can sleep as soundly as the miserable slave, Who, with a full belly and an empty mind, Goes to sleep, stuffed with meager bread; Never sees the horrible night, the child of hell, But like a servant, from sunrise to sunset, Works in the heat of the sun and sleeps at night In Elysium; the next day after dawn, Rises and helps the sun god get on his horse, And follows the never-ending cycle of the year, With fruitful work, all the way to his grave: And if it weren’t for ceremony, such a wretch, Winding up days with hard work and nights with sleep, Would have the advantage over a king. The slave, a part of the nation’s peace, Enjoys it, but in his simple mind doesn’t know What watch the king keeps to maintain that peace, Whose hours are best used by the peasant.
My lord, your nobles, jealous of your absence, Seek through your camp to find you.
My lord, your nobles, worried about your absence, Are searching through your camp to find you.
Good old knight, Collect them all together at my tent: I’ll be before thee.
Good old knight, Gather them all together at my tent: I’ll be there ahead of you.
I shall do’t, my lord.
I’ll do that, my lord.
O God of battles! steel my soldiers’ hearts; Possess them not with fear; take from them now The sense of reckoning, if the opposed numbers Pluck their hearts from them. Not to-day, O Lord, O, not to-day, think not upon the fault My father made in compassing the crown! I Richard’s body have interred anew; And on it have bestow’d more contrite tears Than from it issued forced drops of blood: Five hundred poor I have in yearly pay, Who twice a-day their wither’d hands hold up Toward heaven, to pardon blood; and I have built Two chantries, where the sad and solemn priests Sing still for Richard’s soul. More will I do; Though all that I can do is nothing worth, Since that my penitence comes after all, Imploring pardon.
Oh God of battles! Strengthen my soldiers’ hearts; Don’t let them be filled with fear; take away The sense of defeat, if the enemy’s numbers Steal their courage. Not today, Lord, Oh, not today, don’t let them think about the mistake My father made in seizing the crown! I’ve reburied Richard’s body; And have given it more heartfelt tears Than the blood it once shed by force: I pay five hundred poor people every year, Those who raise their shriveled hands to heaven twice a day To ask for forgiveness for bloodshed; and I’ve built Two small chapels, where the sad priests Sing continuously for Richard’s soul. I will do more; Though all I can do is of little value, Since my repentance comes too late, Asking for forgiveness.
My liege!
My king!
My brother Gloucester’s voice? Ay; I know thy errand, I will go with thee: The day, my friends and all things stay for me.
My brother Gloucester’s voice? Yes; I know why you’ve come, I’ll go with you: The day, my friends, and everything else waits for me.