The Complete Works of William Shakespeare In Plain and Simple English (Translated) (182 page)

Enter Gloucester, Bedford, Exeter, Erpingham, with his entire host: Salisbury and Westmoreland.

Gloucester

Where is the King?

Where is the king?

Bedford

The King himself is rode to view their battle.

He has ridden to see the battle for himself.

Westmoreland

Of fighting men they have full three-score thousand.

They have three thousand fighting men.

Exeter

There's five to one; besides, they all are fresh.

That’s five to one, and they are all fresh.

Salisbury

God's arm strike with us! 'tis a fearful odds.


God be wi' you, princes all; I'll to my charge.


If we no more meet till we meet in heaven,


Then, joyfully, my noble Lord of Bedford,


My dear Lord Gloucester, and my good Lord Exeter,


And my kind kinsman, warriors all, adieu!

God be with us! These are fearsome odds. God be with you, princes. I’m going to my men. If we don’t meet again until heaven then, know I consider you all, Bedford, Gloucester, Exeter, warriors! Goodbye!

Bedford

Farewell, good Salisbury, and good luck go with thee!

Farewell, Salisbury, and good luck!

Exeter

Farewell, kind lord; fight valiantly to-day!


And yet I do thee wrong to mind thee of it,


For thou art fram'd of the firm truth of valour.

Goodbye, kind lord. Fight valiantly today, and although I don’t have to tell you, you are the epitome of courage.

Exit Salisbury.

Bedford

He is as full of valour as of kindness,


Princely in both.

He is as courageous as he is kind.

Enter the King.

Westmoreland

O that we now had here


But one ten thousand of those men in England


That do no work to-day!

Oh, I wish we had one ten-thousandth of the men in England who have no work today!

King

What's he that wishes so?


My cousin Westmoreland? No, my fair cousin.


If we are mark'd to die, we are enow


To do our country loss; and if to live,


The fewer men, the greater share of honour.


God's will! I pray thee, wish not one man more.


By Jove, I am not covetous for gold,


Nor care I who doth feed upon my cost;


It yearns me not if men my garments wear;


Such outward things dwell not in my desires;


But if it be a sin to covet honour,


I am the most offending soul alive.


No, faith, my coz, wish not a man from England.


God's peace! I would not lose so great an honour


As one man more, methinks, would share from me


For the best hope I have. O, do not wish one more!


Rather proclaim it, Westmoreland, through my host,


That he which hath no stomach to this fight,


Let him depart. His passport shall be made,


And crowns for convoy put into his purse.


We would not die in that man's company


That fears his fellowship to die with us.


This day is call'd the feast of Crispian.


He that outlives this day, and comes safe home,


Will stand a tip-toe when this day is named,


And rouse him at the name of Crispian.


He that shall live this day, and see old age,


Will yearly on the vigil feast his neighbours,


And say, "To-morrow is Saint Crispian."


Then will he strip his sleeve and show his scars,


And say, "These wounds I had on Crispian's day."


Old men forget; yet all shall be forgot,


But he'll remember with advantages


What feats he did that day. Then shall our names,


Familiar in his mouth as household words,


Harry the King, Bedford, and Exeter,


Warwick and Talbot, Salisbury and Gloucester,


Be in their flowing cups freshly rememb'red.


This story shall the good man teach his son;


And Crispin Crispian shall 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 ne'er so vile,


This day shall gentle his condition;


And gentlemen in England now a-bed


Shall think themselves accurs'd they were not here,


And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks


That fought with us upon Saint Crispin's day.

What is the kind of person who makes such a wish? My cousin, Westmoreland? No, my cousin, if we are to die, we are enough and our country doesn’t lose anymore men. If we live, then we share more honor. God’s will is what I pray. By God, I do not want any gold. I don’t care who feeds off my demise. It doesn’t bother me, if people borrow my clothes. I am not a material man. But, if it’s a sin to want honor, then I am the most sinful soul alive. No, I swear, my cuz, I don’t wish for any more men from England. God’s peace! I don’t want to lose honor in the eyes of my men, so if anyone doesn’t wish to fight, let him leave. Tell them, Westmoreland, a passport will be made and money will be provided for the voyage home. Today is the Feast of Saint Crispian, and anyone who lives to see this day will stand tall in the future. He who lives today, and sees old age will tell everyone about the scars he received on Saint Crispian’s Day.  He’ll never forget what feats he accomplished this day. Our names will be engraved in his memory, Harry the King, Bedford and Exeter, Warwick and Talbot, Salisbury and Gloucester. Today will make a story he will tell his son. From now on, the Feast of Saint Crispian will never pass that we won’t be remembered. We few, we happy few, we band of brothers. Any who sheds his blood with me will be my brother, no matter how awful. This day will make him anew. Gentlemen, men in their beds in England will wish they were here and consider themselves lesser men compared to any who fought with us today.

Re-enter Salisbury.

Salisbury

My sovereign lord, bestow yourself with speed.


The French are bravely in their battles set,


And will with all expedience charge on us.

My sovereign lord, come quickly. The French are setting up for battle and will soon charge upon us.

King

All things are ready, if our minds be so.

Is everything ready?

Westmoreland

Perish the man whose mind is backward now!

Anyone who isn’t may die today!

King

Thou dost not wish more help from England, coz?

You don’t wish for more help from England, cuz?

Westmoreland

God's will! my liege, would you and I alone,


Without more help, could fight this royal battle!

I only want God’s will, my liege! If it were just you and me, we could fight this battle alone!

King

Why, now thou hast unwish'd five thousand men,


Which likes me better than to wish us one.


You know your places. God be with you all!

Why have you unwished five thousand men for one? You all know your places. God be with you all!

Trumpet sounds. Enter Montjoy.

Montjoy

Once more I come to know of thee, King Harry,


If for thy ransom thou wilt now compound,


Before thy most assured overthrow;


For certainly thou art so near the gulf,


Thou needs must be englutted. Besides, in mercy,


The Constable desires thee thou wilt mind


Thy followers of repentance; that their souls


May make a peaceful and a sweet retire


From off these fields, where, wretches, their poor bodies


Must lie and fester.

I’m here once more to know what you desire, King Harry. Do you want to negotiate your ransom before you are defeated? You and your men must be in need. Besides, the constable wants to show mercy, and give you an opportunity to retreat from what will soon be your death bed.

King

Who hath sent thee now?

Who sent you this time?

Montjoy

The Constable of France.

The Constable of France.

King

I pray thee, bear my former answer back:


Bid them achieve me and then sell my bones.


Good God! why should they mock poor fellows thus?


The man that once did sell the lion's skin


While the beast liv'd, was kill'd with hunting him.


A many of our bodies shall no doubt


Find native graves, upon the which, I trust,


Shall witness live in brass of this day's work;


And those that leave their valiant bones in France,


Dying like men, though buried in your dunghills,


They shall be fam'd; for there the sun shall greet them,


And draw their honours reeking up to heaven;


Leaving their earthly parts to choke your clime,


The smell whereof shall breed a plague in France.


Mark then abounding valour in our English,


That being dead, like to the bullet's grazing,


Break out into a second course of mischief,


Killing in relapse of mortality.


Let me speak proudly: tell the Constable


We are but warriors for the working-day.


Our gayness and our gilt are all besmirch'd


With rainy marching in the painful field;


There's not a piece of feather in our host--


Good argument, I hope, we will not fly--


And time hath worn us into slovenry;


But, by the mass, our hearts are in the trim;


And my poor soldiers tell me, yet ere night


They'll be in fresher robes, or they will pluck


The gay new coats o'er the French soldiers' heads


And turn them out of service. If they do this--


As, if God please, they shall,--my ransom then


Will soon be levied. Herald, save thou thy labour.


Come thou no more for ransom, gentle herald.


They shall have none, I swear, but these my joints;


Which if they have as I will leave 'em them,


Shall yield them little, tell the Constable.

Please take my answer back. Tell them to come and get me. Then they can sell my bones. Good God, why do they mock us this way? The man, who tried to sell the lion’s skin before he was dead, was killed while hunting him. Many of us will die today, but they will be honored in heaven, while their dead bodies choke up the air and breed a deadly plague in France. Remember our valor and or ability to cause trouble even with our death. Let me be clear. Tell the constable we are only warriors for today. We don’t want peace and we won’t surrender. Our bodies may be worn, but our hearts our healthy. My poor soldiers tell me, they will be in fresh clothes tonight, or they will take the new coats over the French soldiers’ heads. If they succeed, God willing, my ransom will be known. Montjoy, save yourself some work. Don’t come anymore for my ransom. They can have my bones and nothing else. Tell the constable