Act IVChorus
Enter Chorus.
Chorus
Now entertain conjecture of a timeWhen creeping murmur and the poring darkFills the wide vessel of the universe.From camp to camp through the foul womb of nightThe hum of either army stilly sounds,That the fix’d sentinels almost receiveThe secret whispers of each other’s watch;Fire answers fire, and through their paly flamesEach battle sees the other’s umber’d face;Steed threatens steed, in high and boastful neighsPiercing the night’s dull ear; and from the tentsThe 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 FrenchDo the low-rated English play at dice;And chide the cripple tardy-gaited NightWho, like a foul and ugly witch, doth limpSo tediously away. The poor condemned English,Like sacrifices, by their watchful firesSit patiently and inly ruminateThe morning’s danger; and their gesture sad,Investing lank-lean cheeks and war-worn coats,Presented them unto the gazing moonSo many horrid ghosts. O now, who will beholdThe royal captain of this ruin’d bandWalking 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 noteHow dread an army hath enrounded him;Nor doth he dedicate one jot of colourUnto the weary and all-watched night,But freshly looks, and over-bears attaintWith cheerful semblance and sweet majesty;That every wretch, pining and pale before,Beholding him, plucks comfort from his looks.A largess universal like the sunHis liberal eye doth give to everyone,Thawing cold fear, that mean and gentle allBehold, 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 disgraceWith four or five most vile and ragged foils,Right ill-dispos’d in brawl ridiculous,The name of Agincourt. Yet sit and see,Minding true things by what their mock’ries be.
Exit.