Prologue

[Enter Chorus]

• Chorus. Now entertain conjecture of a time
  When creeping murmur and the poring dark
  Fills the wide vessel of the universe. 1790
  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 1795
  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, 1800
  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 1805
  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 1810
  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 1815
  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 1820
  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, 1825
  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 1830
  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; 1835
  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. 1840

[Exit]