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Modern English
Where is the king?
Where’s the king?
The king himself is rode to view their battle.
The king himself has ridden out to watch the battle.
Of fighting men they have full three score thousand.
They have a full army of sixty thousand men.
There’s five to one; besides, they all are fresh.
It’s five to one; and they’re all fresh troops.
God’s arm strike with us! ’tis a fearful odds. God be wi’ you, princes all; I’ll to my charge: If we no more meet till we meet in heaven, Then, joyfully, my noble Lord of Bedford, My dear Lord Gloucester, and my good Lord Exeter, And my kind kinsman, warriors all, adieu!
God’s strength be with us! The odds are terrifying. God be with you, princes all; I’ll go to my post: If we don’t meet again till heaven, then, joyfully, my noble Lord of Bedford, My dear Lord Gloucester, and my good Lord Exeter, And my kind kinsman, warriors all, goodbye!
Farewell, good Salisbury; and good luck go with thee!
Goodbye, good Salisbury; and may good luck be with you!
Farewell, kind lord; fight valiantly to-day: And yet I do thee wrong to mind thee of it, For thou art framed of the firm truth of valour.
Goodbye, kind lord; fight bravely today: And yet I do you a disservice reminding you of it, For you are made of true courage.
He is full of valour as of kindness; Princely in both.
He is full of courage as he is of kindness; Noble in both.
O that we now had here But one ten thousand of those men in England That do no work to-day!
Oh, if only we had here Ten thousand of those men in England Who are not fighting today!
What’s he that wishes so? My cousin Westmoreland? No, my fair cousin: If we are mark’d to die, we are enow To do our country loss; and if to live, The fewer men, the greater share of honour. God’s will! I pray thee, wish not one man more. By Jove, I am not covetous for gold, Nor care I who doth feed upon my cost; It yearns me not if men my garments wear; Such outward things dwell not in my desires: But if it be a sin to covet honour, I am the most offending soul alive. No, faith, my coz, wish not a man from England: God’s peace! I would not lose so great an honour As one man more, methinks, would share from me For the best hope I have. O, do not wish one more! Rather proclaim it, Westmoreland, through my host, That he which hath no stomach to this fight, Let him depart; his passport shall be made 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 tip-toe when the 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 neighbours, And say ’To-morrow is Saint Crispian:’ Then will he strip his sleeve and show his scars. And say ’These wounds I had on Crispin’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 remember’d. 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 remember’d; We few, we happy few, we band of brothers; For he to-day that sheds his blood with me Shall be my brother; be he ne’er so vile, This day shall gentle his condition: 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 Saint Crispin’s day.
Who’s the one wishing for that? My cousin Westmoreland? No, my good cousin: If we’re meant to die, we have enough men To suffer the loss for our country; and if we’re meant to live, The fewer men, the greater the honour. God’s will! I pray, don’t wish for a single man more. By Jove, I’m not interested in gold, Nor do I care who spends my money; It doesn’t bother me if others wear my clothes; These outward things aren’t what I care about: But if it’s a sin to want honour, I am the most sinful person alive. No, truly, my cousin, don’t wish for a man from England: God’s peace! I wouldn’t give up so great an honour As one more man could share with me For the best hope I have. Oh, don’t wish for another! Instead, proclaim it, Westmoreland, to my troops, Anyone here who doesn’t have the courage for this fight, Let him leave; we’ll make his travel documents And give him money for the journey home. We don’t want to die alongside a man Who’s afraid to stand with us and face death. Today is called the feast of Crispian. Whoever survives this day and makes it home safely Will stand tall and proud whenever this day is mentioned, And get excited at the mention of Crispian. Whoever lives through this day to reach old age Will celebrate each year on the eve of this day with his neighbors, And say, “Tomorrow is Saint Crispian’s day.” Then he’ll roll up his sleeve and show his scars, Saying, “I got these wounds on Crispian’s day.” Old men forget things, but they’ll remember— And remember even more vividly— The great deeds they did that day. Our names Will be as familiar to them as household names: Harry the king, Bedford, and Exeter, Warwick, Talbot, Salisbury, and Gloucester— Toasted in their cups as freshly remembered heroes. This story will be passed down by good men to their sons; And the name of Crispin Crispian will never be forgotten— From this day until the end of the world— Because we will be remembered. We few, we happy few, we band of brothers; For anyone who sheds blood with me today Will be my brother, no matter how lowly he started. This day will raise him to noble status. And gentlemen in England still in bed today Will curse themselves for not being here, And feel ashamed when anyone speaks Of those who fought with us on Saint Crispin’s day.
My sovereign lord, bestow yourself with speed: The French are bravely in their battles set, And will with all expedience charge on us.
My lord, you must hurry: The French are boldly ready for battle And will attack us at any moment.
All things are ready, if our minds be so.
Everything is ready—if our spirits are too.
Perish the man whose mind is backward now!
Shame on anyone who isn’t ready now!
Thou dost not wish more help from England, coz?
You don’t wish for more soldiers from England, cousin?
God’s will! my liege, would you and I alone, Without more help, could fight this royal battle!
God’s will, my liege, I wish you and I alone, Without any more help, could fight this royal battle!
Why, now thou hast unwish’d five thousand men; Which likes me better than to wish us one. You know your places: God be with you all!
Why, you’ve just taken back your wish for five thousand men; And I like that better than wishing for even one more. You all know your positions—may God be with you all!
Once more I come to know of thee, King Harry, If for thy ransom thou wilt now compound, Before thy most assured overthrow: For certainly thou art so near the gulf, Thou needs must be englutted. Besides, in mercy, The constable desires thee thou wilt mind Thy followers of repentance; that their souls May make a peaceful and a sweet retire From off these fields, where, wretches, their poor bodies Must lie and fester.
I’ve come again to ask you, King Harry, Will you agree to pay a ransom now, Before your certain defeat? You’re so close to the abyss, You’ll soon be swallowed by it. Also, in mercy, The constable asks that you remind Your men to repent, so their souls May leave peacefully and gently From this battlefield, where their bodies Will lie broken and rot.
Who hath sent thee now?
Who sent you here this time?
The Constable of France.
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. A 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 honours reeking up to heaven; Leaving their earthly parts to choke your clime, The smell whereof shall breed a plague in France. Mark then abounding valour in our English, That being dead, like to the bullet’s grazing, Break out into a second course of mischief, Killing in relapse of mortality. Let me speak proudly: tell the constable We are but warriors for the working-day; Our gayness and our gilt are all besmirch’d With rainy marching in the painful field; There’s not a piece of feather in our host-- Good argument, I hope, we will not fly-- And time hath worn us into slovenry: But, by the mass, our hearts are in the trim; And my poor soldiers tell me, yet ere night They’ll be in fresher robes, or they will pluck The gay new coats o’er the French soldiers’ heads And turn them out of service. If they do this,-- As, if God please, they shall,--my ransom then Will soon be levied. Herald, save thou thy labour; Come thou no more for ransom, gentle herald: They shall have none, I swear, but these my joints; Which if they have as I will leave ’em them, Shall yield them little, tell the constable.
Please, take my earlier answer back: Tell them to defeat me and then sell my bones. Oh God! Why do they mock us poor men like this? The man who tried to sell a lion’s skin While the lion was still alive got killed hunting it. Many of our bodies will surely End up in graves in this land; and I hope Those graves will tell the story of today’s deeds: And for those who leave their brave bodies in France, Dying like true men, even if buried in your trash heaps, They’ll still be honored; for the sun will shine on them, And lift their glory, steaming, to heaven; Leaving their earthly remains to poison your land, The stench of which will spread a plague in France. See then the overflowing courage of the English, Who, even in death, like a glancing bullet, Cause further harm and destruction, Striking down more after they die. Let me speak boldly: tell the Constable We are just everyday workers turned warriors; Our finery and polish are all smeared By marching through rain and hardship; Not a single feather is left among us— A good sign, I think, that we won’t run away— And time has made us rough and scruffy: But, by God, our hearts are still in shape; And my tired soldiers say that before nightfall They’ll have fresh uniforms, or they’ll strip The fine new clothes off French soldiers And send them home jobless. If they do this— And, if God allows, they will—then my ransom Will soon be paid. Herald, save yourself the effort; Don’t come back asking for ransom, noble herald: They’ll get nothing, I swear, but my bones; And if they take them as I’ll leave them, They won’t be worth much. Tell the Constable that.
I shall, King Harry. And so fare thee well: Thou never shalt hear herald any more.
I will, King Henry. Farewell: You’ll never hear from a herald again.
I fear thou’lt once more come again for ransom.
I bet you’ll come back asking for ransom again.
My lord, most humbly on my knee I beg The leading of the vaward.
My lord, humbly on my knees, I ask To lead the front lines.
Take it, brave York. Now, soldiers, march away: And how thou pleasest, God, dispose the day!
Take it, brave York. Now, soldiers, let’s march: And God, decide the outcome as You will!