May make a peaceful and a sweet retire
From off these fields, where, wretches, their poor bodies
Must lie and fester.
K. Hen. Who hath sent thee now? 88
Mont. The Constable of France.
K. Hen. I pray thee, bear my former answer back:
Bid them me and then sell my bones.
Good God! why should they mock poor fellows thus? 92
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, 96
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 dung-hills,
They shall be fam'd; for there the sun shall greet them, 100
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, 105
Break out into a second course of mischief,
Killing in .
Let me speak proudly: tell the constable, 108
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— 112
Good argument, I hope, we will not fly—
And time hath worn us into :
91 achieve: kill
107 relapse of mortality: a deadly rebound
114 slovenry: slovenliness