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
      Bruised 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?

MICHAEL DRAYTON.

* * * * *

THE KING TO HIS SOLDIERS BEFORE HARFLEUR.

[1415.]

FROM “KING HENRY V.,” ACT III.  SC. 1.

    Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more;
  Or close the wall up with our English dead! 
  In peace, there’s nothing so becomes a man,
  As modest stillness, and humility: 
  But when the blast of war blows in our ears,
  Then imitate the action of the tiger;
  Stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood,
  Disguise fair nature with hard-favored rage: 
  Then lend the eye a terrible aspect;
  Let it pry through the portage of the head,
  Like the brass cannon; let the brow o’erwhelm it,
  As fearfully as doth a galled rock
  O’erhang and jutty his confounded base,
  Swilled with the wild and wasteful ocean. 
  Now set the teeth, and stretch the nostril wide;
  Hold hard the breath, and bend up every spirit
  To his full height!—­On, on, you noblest English,
  Whose blood is fet from fathers of war-proof! 
  Fathers, that, like so many Alexanders,
  Have, in these parts, from morn till even fought,
  And sheathed their swords for lack of argument. 
  Dishonor not your mothers; now attest,
  That those whom you called fathers, did beget you! 
  Be copy now to men of grosser blood,
  And teach them how to war!—­And you, good yeomen,
  Whose limbs were made in England, show us here
  The mettle of your pasture; let us swear
  That you are worth your breeding:  which I doubt not;
  For there is none of you so mean and base,
  That hath not noble lustre in your eyes. 
  I see you stand like greyhounds in the slips,
  Straining upon the start.  The game’s afoot;
  Follow your spirit:  and, upon this charge,
  Cry—­God for Harry!  England! and Saint George!