Lyra Heroica

INTROIT

O for a Muse of fire, that would ascend

The brightest heaven of invention,

A kingdom for a stage, princes to act

And monarchs to behold the swelling scene!

Then should the warlike Harry, like himself,

Assume the port of Mars; and at his heels,

Leashed in like hounds, should Famine, Sword and Fire

Crouch for employment. But pardon, gentles all,

The flat unraisèd spirits that have dared

On this unworthy scaffold to bring forth

So great an object. Can this cockpit hold

The vasty fields of France? or may we cram

Within this wooden O the very casques

That did affright the air at Agincourt?

O pardon! since a crooked figure may

Attest in little place a million,

And let us, ciphers to this great accompt,

On your imaginary forces work.

Suppose within the girdle of these walls

Are now confined two mighty monarchies,

Whose high uprearèd and abutting fronts

The perilous narrow ocean parts asunder:

Piece out our imperfections with your thoughts;

Into a thousand parts divide one man,

And make imaginary puissance;

Think, when we talk of horses, that you see them

Printing their proud hoofs i' the receiving earth;

For 'tis your thoughts that now must deck our kings,

Carry them here and there, jumping o'er times,

Turning the accomplishment of many years

Into an hour-glass.

INTERLUDE

Now all the youth of England are on fire,

And silken dalliance in the wardrobe lies:

Now thrive the armourers, and honour's thought

Reigns solely in the breast of every man:

They sell the pasture now to buy the horse,

Following the mirror of all Christian kings,

With wingèd heels, as English Mercuries:

For now sits Expectation in the air,

And hides a sword from hilts unto the point

With crowns imperial, crowns and coronets,

Promised to Harry and his followers.

The French, advised by good intelligence

Of this most dreadful preparation,

Shake in their fear, and with pale policy

Seek to divert the English purposes.

O England! model to thy inward greatness,

Like little body with a mighty heart,

What mightst thou do, that honour would thee do,

Were all thy children kind and natural!

But see thy fault: France hath in thee found out

A nest of hollow bosoms, which he fills

With treacherous crowns; and three corrupted men,

One, Richard Earl of Cambridge, and the second,

Henry Lord Scroop of Masham, and the third,

Sir Thomas Grey, knight, of Northumberland,

Have for the gilt of France-O guilt indeed!-

Confirmed conspiracy with fearful France;

And by their hands this grace of kings must die,

If hell and treason hold their promises,

Ere he take ship for France, and in Southampton!-

HARFLEUR

Thus with imagined wing our swift scene flies

In motion of no less celerity

Than that of thought. Suppose that you have seen

The well-appointed king at Hampton Pier

Embark his royalty, and his brave fleet

With silken streamers the young Ph?bus fanning:

Play with your fancies, and in them behold

Upon the hempen tackle ship-boys climbing;

Hear the shrill whistle which doth order give

To sounds confused; behold the threaden sails,

Borne with the invisible and creeping wind

Draw the huge bottoms through the furrowed sea

Breasting the lofty surge. O, do but think

You stand upon the rivage and behold

A city on the inconstant billows dancing!

For so appears this fleet majestical,

Holding due course to Harfleur. Follow, follow:

Grapple your minds to sternage of this navy,

And leave your England, as dead midnight still,

Guarded with grandsires, babies and old women,

Or passed or not arrived to pith and puissance;

For who is he, whose chin is but enriched

With one appearing hair, that will not follow

These culled and choice-drawn cavaliers to France?

Work, work your thoughts, and therein see a siege:

Behold the ordnance on their carriages,

With fatal mouths gaping on girded Harfleur.

Suppose the ambassador from the French comes back;

Tells Harry that the king doth offer him

Katharine his daughter, and with her to dowry

Some petty and unprofitable dukedoms.

The offer likes not: and the nimble gunner

With linstock now the devilish cannon touches,

And down goes all before them!

THE EVE

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 umbered 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 condemnèd 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 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,

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-watchèd 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.

Shakespeare.

THE BATTLE

Fair stood the wind for France,

When we our sails advance,

Nor now to prove our chance

Longer will tarry;

But putting to the main,

At Caux, the mouth of Seine,

With all his martial train,

Landed King Harry.

And taking many a fort,

Furnished in warlike sort,

Marched towards Agincourt

In happy hour,

Skirmishing day by day

With those that stopped his way,

Where the French gen'ral lay

With all his power:

Which, in his height of pride,

King Henry to deride,

His ransom to provide

To the king sending;

Which he neglects the while

As from a nation vile,

Yet with an angry smile

Their fall portending.

And turning to his men,

Quoth our brave Henry then,

'Though they to one be ten,

Be not amazèd.

Yet have we well begun,

Battles so bravely won

Have ever to the sun

By fame been raisèd.

And for myself, quoth he,

This my full rest shall be:

England ne'er mourn for me,

Nor more esteem me;

Victor I will remain

Or on this earth lie slain;

Never shall she sustain

Loss to redeem me.

Poitiers and Cressy tell,

When most their pride did swell,

Under our swords they fell;

No less our skill is

Than when our grandsire great,

Claiming the regal seat,

By many a warlike feat

Lopped the French lilies.'

The Duke of York so dread

The eager vaward led;

With the main Henry sped,

Amongst his henchmen;

Excester had the rear,

A braver man not there:

O Lord, how hot they were

On the false Frenchmen!

They now to fight are gone,

Armour on armour shone,

Drum now to drum did groan,

To hear was wonder;

That with the cries they make

The very earth did shake,

Trumpet to trumpet spake,

Thunder to thunder.

Well it thine age became,

O noble Erpingham,

Which did the signal aim

To our hid forces!

When from the meadow by,

Like a storm suddenly,

The English archery

Struck the French horses.

With Spanish yew so strong,

Arrows a cloth-yard long,

That like to serpents stung,

Piercing the weather;

None from his fellow starts,

But playing manly parts,

And like true English hearts

Stuck close together.

When down their bows they threw,

And forth their bilbos drew,

And on the French they flew,

Not one was tardy;

Arms were from shoulders sent,

Scalps to the teeth were rent,

Down the French peasants went;

Our men were hardy.

This while our noble king,

His broadsword brandishing,

Down the French host did ding

As to o'erwhelm it,

And many a deep wound lent,

His arms with blood besprent,

And many a cruel dent

Bruisèd his helmet.

Glo'ster, that duke so good,

Next of the royal blood,

For famous England stood,

With his brave brother;

Clarence, in steel so bright,

Though but a maiden knight,

Yet in that furious fight

Scarce such another!

Warwick in blood did wade,

Oxford the foe invade,

And cruel slaughter made,

Still as they ran up;

Suffolk his axe did ply,

Beaumont and Willoughby

Bare them right doughtily,

Ferrers and Fanhope.

Upon Saint Crispin's Day

Fought was this noble fray,

Which fame did not delay,

To England to carry.

O, when shall Englishmen

With such acts fill a pen,

Or England breed again

Such a King Harry?

Drayton.

AFTER

Now we bear the king

Toward Calais: grant him there; there seen,

Heave him away upon your wingèd thoughts

Athwart the sea. Behold, the English beach

Pales in the flood with men, with wives and boys,

Whose shouts and claps out-voice the deep-mouthed sea,

Which like a mighty whiffler 'fore the king

Seems to prepare his way: so let him land,

And solemnly see him set on to London.

So swift a pace hath thought that even now

You may imagine him upon Blackheath;

Where that his lords desire him to have borne

His bruisèd helmet and his bended sword

Before him through the city: he forbids it,

Being free from vainness and self-glorious pride,

Giving full trophy, signal and ostent,

Quite from himself to God. But now behold,

In the quick forge and working-house of thought,

How London doth pour out her citizens!

The mayor and all his brethren in best sort,

Like to the senators of the antique Rome,

With the plebeians swarming at their heels,

Go forth and fetch their conquering C?sar in!

Shakespeare.