PROLOGUE The Life of King Henry the Fifth  Shakespeare homepage  |  Henry V  | Act 4, Prologue 

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 Enter Chorus  Chorus  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. 



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