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And fay, To-morrow is Saint Crispian :

Then will he ftrip his fleeve, and fhew his fcars.
Old men forget; yet shall not all forget,
But they'll remember, with advantages,

The feats they did that day. Then shall our names
Familiar in their mouth as houfhold-words,

Harry the King, Bedford, and Exeter,
Warwick and Talbot, Salisbury and Glo'fter,
Be in their flowing cups freshly remember'd.
This ftory fhall the good man teach his son:
And Crifpin Crifpian thall ne'er go by,
From this day to the ending of the world,
But we in it shall be remembered ;

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 e'er fo vile,
This day fhall gentle his condition..

And gentlemen in England, now a-bed,
Shall think themselves accurs'd they were not here
And hold their manhoods cheap, while any speaks,
That fought with us upon St. Crifpian's day.






OW fares my Lord? Speak, Beaufort,

to thy Sovereign.

CAR. If thou be'ft Death, I'll give thee England's


Enough to purchafe fuch another ifland,

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Sharp scup.

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Peace to his Soul if God's good pleasure be?!
Lord Cardinal, if thou think'st on heaven's blys.
Hold up thy hand, make signal of thy hope.
He dies, and makes no sign! O God forgive him.


Published as the Act directs, by JJohnson in S.Pauls Church Yard, 1 Aug. 1780.

So wilt thou let me live, and feel no pain.

K. HENRY. Ah, what a fign it is of evil life,

Where death's approach is feen fo terrible!


WAR. Beaufort, it is thy Sovereign speaks to thee.
CAR. Bring me unto my trial when you will.
Dy'd he not in his bed? Where should he die?
Can I make men live whether they will or no?
Oh, torture me no more, I will confefs-
Alive again? Then fhew me where he is :
I'll give a thousand pound to look upon him-
He hath no eyes, the duft hath blinded them:
Comb down his hair'; look! look! it stands upright,
Like lime-twigs fet to catch my winged foul.
Give me fome drink, and bid th' apothecary
Bring the ftrong poison that I bought of him.

K. HENRY. O thou eternal Mover of the heav'ns,
Look with a gentle eye upon this wretch;
Oh, beat away the bufy, meddling fiend,
That lays ftrong fiege unto this wretch's foul,
And from his bofom purge this black despair.
-Peace to his foul, if God's good pleasure be!
Lord Cardinal, if thou think'ft on heaven's blifs,
Hold up thy hand, make fignal of thy hope.
He dies, and makes no fign! O God, forgive him.
WAR. So bad a death argues a monstrous life.

K. HENRY. Forbear to judge, for we are finners all.
Clofe up his eyes, and draw the curtain close,
And let us all to meditation.







CAREWEL, a long farewel to all my greatness! This is the state of man: To-day he puts forth The tender leaves of hope; to-morrow bloffoms, And bears his blufhing honours thick upon him; The third day comes a froft, a killing frost, And when he thinks, good easy man, full surely His greatness is a-ripening, nips his shoot; And then he falls, as I do. I have ventur'd, Like little wanton boys, that fwim on bladders, Thefe many fummers in a fea of glory; But far beyond my depth: my high-blown pride At length broke under me; and now has left me, Weary, and old with service, to the mercy Of a rude ftream, that muft for ever hide me. Vain pomp and glory of the world, I hate ye! I feel my heart new open'd. Oh, how wretched Is that poor man that hangs on princes' favours! There is, betwixt that smile he would aspire to, That fweet aspect of princes, and his ruin, More pangs and fears than war or women have; And when he falls, he falls like Lucifer,

Never to hope again.

Why, how now, Cromwell?

CROM. I have no power to fpeak, Sir,
WoL. What, amaz'd

At my misfortunes? Can thy fpirit wonder
A great man fhould decline? Nay, if you weep,
I'm fall'n indeed.


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