My father made in compassing the crown!
I Richard's body have interrèd new,

And on it have bestow'd more contrite tears
Than from it issued forcèd drops of blood.
Five hundred poor I have in yearly pay,
Who twice a-day their wither'd hands hold up
Toward heaven, to pardon blood; and I have built
Two chantries, where the sad and solemn priests
Sing still for Richard's soul. More will I do;
Though all that I can do is nothing worth,
Since that my penitence comes after all,
Imploring pardon.

THE BATTLE OF AGINCOURT

MICHAEL DRAYTON

THE campaign began badly, for although Henry took Harfleur and other places along the Seine, his troops were wasted by disease and many had to be sent home. He was pushing on to Calais with but fifteen thousand men when his march was intercepted at Agincourt (1415) by a French army four times his number. The victory, like those of Cressy and Poitiers, was won by the English archers, who proved more than a match for the heavy-armored French horsemen.

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,
Marcheth towards Agincourt,
In happy hour;

Skirmishing day by day

With those that stopped his way,
Where the French general 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 be one to ten,
Be not amazèd;

66

Yet have we well begun,

Battles so bravely won

Have ever to the sun

By fame been raised.

"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 va'ward led;
With the main, Henry sped,
Amongst his henchmen.

Exeter 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 didst the signal aim

To our hid forces; When from a meadow by, Like a storm suddenly,

The English archery

Stuck 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 broad sword brandishing,

Down the French host did ding,

As to o'erwhelm it,

And many a deep wound lent,
His arms with blood besprent,1
And many a cruel dent
Bruised his helmet.

Gloucester, 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;

Oh, when shall English men
With such acts fill a pen,

Or England breed again
Such a King Harry?