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      Hung be the heavens with black, yield day to night!

      Comets, importing change of times and states,

      Brandish your crystal tresses in the sky,

      And with them scourge the bad revolting stars

      That have consented unto Henry's death!

      King Henry the Fifth, too famous to live long!

      England ne'er lost a king of so much worth.

      England ne'er had a king until his time.

      Virtue he had, deserving to command:

      His brandish'd sword did blind men with his beams:

      His arms spread wider than a dragon's wings;

      His sparkling eyes, replete with wrathful fire,

      More dazzled and drove back his enemies

      Than mid-day sun fierce bent against their faces.

      What should I say? his deeds exceed all speech:

      He ne'er lift up his hand but conquered.

      We mourn in black: why mourn we not in blood?

      Henry is dead and never shall revive:

      Upon a wooden coffin we attend,

      And death's dishonourable victory

      We with our stately presence glorify,

      Like captives bound to a triumphant car.

      What! shall we curse the planets of mishap

      That plotted thus our glory's overthrow?

      Or shall we think the subtle-witted French

      Conjurers and sorcerers, that afraid of him

      By magic verses have contriv'd his end?

      He was a king bless'd of the King of kings;

      Unto the French the dreadful judgment-day

      So dreadful will not be as was his sight.

      The battles of the Lord of hosts he fought:

      The Church's prayers made him so prosperous.

      The church! where is it? Had not churchmen pray'd,

      His thread of life had not so soon decay'd:

      None do you like but an effeminate prince,

      Whom, like a school-boy, you may over-awe.

      Gloucester, whate'er we like, thou art Protector,

      And lookest to command the Prince and realm.

      Thy wife is proud; she holdeth thee in awe,

      More than God or religious churchmen may.

      Name not religion, for thou lov'st the flesh,

      And ne'er throughout the year to church thou go'st,

      Except it be to pray against thy foes.

      Cease, cease these jars and rest your minds in peace:

      Let's to the altar: heralds, wait on us:

      Instead of gold, we'll offer up our arms;

      Since arms avail not, now that Henry's dead.

      Posterity, await for wretched years,

      When at their mothers' moist eyes babes shall suck,

      Our isle be made a marish of salt tears,

      And none but women left to wail the dead.

      Henry the Fifth, thy ghost I invocate:

      Prosper this realm, keep it from civil broils,

      Combat with adverse planets in the heavens!

      A far more glorious star thy soul will make

      Than Julius Caesar or bright —

      My honourable lords, health to you all!

      Sad tidings bring I to you out of France,

      Of loss, of slaughter, and discomfiture:

      Guienne, Champagne, Rheims, Orleans,

      Paris, Guysors, Poictiers, are all quite lost.

      What say'st thou, man, before dead Henry's corse?

      Speak softly; or the loss of those great towns

      Will make him burst his lead and rise from death.

      Is Paris lost? Is Rouen yielded up

      If Henry were recall'd to life again,

      These news would cause him once more yield the ghost.

      How

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