Lyra Heroica | Page 7

great an object. Can this cockpit
hold
The vasty fields of France? or may we cram
Within this
wooden O the very casques
That did affright the air at Agincourt?

O pardon! since a crooked figure may
Attest in little place a million,

And let us, ciphers to this great accompt,
On your imaginary forces
work.
Suppose within the girdle of these walls
Are now confined
two mighty monarchies,
Whose high uprearèd and abutting fronts

The perilous narrow ocean parts asunder:
Piece out our imperfections
with your thoughts;
Into a thousand parts divide one man,
And
make imaginary puissance;
Think, when we talk of horses, that you
see them
Printing their proud hoofs i' the receiving earth;
For 'tis
your thoughts that now must deck our kings,
Carry them here and
there, jumping o'er times,
Turning the accomplishment of many years

Into an hour-glass.
INTERLUDE
Now all the youth of England are on fire,
And silken dalliance in the
wardrobe lies:
Now thrive the armourers, and honour's thought

Reigns solely in the breast of every man:
They sell the pasture now to
buy the horse,
Following the mirror of all Christian kings,
With
wingèd heels, as English Mercuries:
For now sits Expectation in the
air,

And hides a sword from hilts unto the point
With crowns
imperial, crowns and coronets,
Promised to Harry and his followers.


The French, advised by good intelligence
Of this most dreadful
preparation,
Shake in their fear, and with pale policy
Seek to divert
the English purposes.
O England! model to thy inward greatness,

Like little body with a mighty heart,
What mightst thou do, that
honour would thee do,
Were all thy children kind and natural!
But
see thy fault: France hath in thee found out
A nest of hollow bosoms,
which he fills
With treacherous crowns; and three corrupted men,

One, Richard Earl of Cambridge, and the second,
Henry Lord Scroop
of Masham, and the third,
Sir Thomas Grey, knight, of
Northumberland,
Have for the gilt of France--O guilt indeed!--

Confirmed conspiracy with fearful France;
And by their hands this
grace of kings must die,
If hell and treason hold their promises,
Ere
he take ship for France, and in Southampton!--
HARFLEUR
Thus with imagined wing our swift scene flies
In motion of no less
celerity
Than that of thought. Suppose that you have seen
The
well-appointed king at Hampton Pier
Embark his royalty, and his
brave fleet
With silken streamers the young Phoebus fanning:
Play
with your fancies, and in them behold
Upon the hempen tackle
ship-boys climbing;
Hear the shrill whistle which doth order give

To sounds confused; behold the threaden sails,
Borne with the
invisible and creeping wind
Draw the huge bottoms through the
furrowed sea
Breasting the lofty surge. O, do but think
You stand
upon the rivage and behold
A city on the inconstant billows dancing!

For so appears this fleet majestical,
Holding due course to Harfleur.
Follow, follow:
Grapple your minds to sternage of this navy,
And
leave your England, as dead midnight still,
Guarded with grandsires,
babies and old women,
Or passed or not arrived to pith and puissance;

For who is he, whose chin is but enriched
With one appearing hair,
that will not follow
These culled and choice-drawn cavaliers to
France?
Work, work your thoughts, and therein see a siege:
Behold

the ordnance on their carriages,
With fatal mouths gaping on girded
Harfleur.
Suppose the ambassador from the French comes back;

Tells Harry that the king doth offer him
Katharine his daughter, and
with her to dowry
Some petty and unprofitable dukedoms.
The
offer likes not: and the nimble gunner
With linstock now the devilish
cannon touches,
And down goes all before them!
THE EVE
Now entertain conjecture of a time
When creeping murmur and the
poring dark
Fills the wide vessel of the universe.
From camp to
camp through the foul womb of night
The hum of either army stilly
sounds,
That the fixed sentinels almost receive
The secret whispers
of each other's watch:
Fire answers fire, and through their paly flames

Each battle sees the other's umbered face;
Steed threatens steed, in
high and boastful neighs
Piercing the night's dull ear, and from the
tents
The armourers, accomplishing the knights,
With busy
hammers closing rivets up,
Give dreadful note of preparation.
The
country cocks do crow, the clocks do toll,
And the third hour of
drowsy morning name.
Proud of their numbers and secure in soul,

The confident and over-lusty French
Do the low-rated English play at
dice,
And chide the cripple, tardy-gaited night
Who like a foul and
ugly witch doth limp
So tediously away. The poor condemnèd
English,
Like sacrifices, by their watchful fires
Sit patiently and
inly ruminate
The morning's danger, and their gesture sad,

Investing lank-lean cheeks and war-worn coats,
Presenteth them unto
the gazing moon
So many horrid ghosts. O now, who will behold

The royal captain of this ruined band
Walking from watch to watch,
from tent to tent,
Let him cry 'Praise and glory on his head!'
For
forth he goes and visits all his host,
Bids them good-morrow with a
modest smile,
And calls them brothers, friends, and countrymen.

Upon his royal face there is no note
How dread an army hath
enrounded him;
Nor doth he dedicate one jot of colour
Unto the

weary and all-watchèd night,
But freshly looks and over-bears attaint

With cheerful semblance and sweet majesty,
That every wretch,
pining and pale before,
Beholding him, plucks comfort from his looks.

A largess universal like the sun
His liberal