⌜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 of5 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 flames10 Each battle sees the other’s umbered face; Steed threatens steed in high and boastful neighs Piercing the night’s dull ear; and from the tents The armorers, accomplishing the knights, With busy hammers closing rivets up,15 Give dreadful note of preparation. The country cocks do crow, the clocks do toll, And, the third hour of drowsy morning named, Proud of their numbers and secure in soul, The confident and overlusty French20 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 condemnèd English,
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ACT 4. CHORUS
Like sacrifices, by their watchful fires25 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 behold30 The royal captain of this ruined 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,35 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 color Unto the weary and all-watchèd night,40 But freshly looks and overbears attaint With cheerful semblance and sweet majesty, That every wretch, pining and pale before, Beholding him, plucks comfort from his looks. A largesse universal, like the sun,45 His liberal eye doth give to everyone, 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,50 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 mock’ries be.He exits.