Act 1 - Scene 1
Dead March. Enter the Funeral of KING HENRY the Fifth, attended on by Dukes of BEDFORD, Regent
of France; GLOUCESTER, Protector; and EXETER, Earl of WARWICK, the BISHOP OF WINCHESTER,
Hung be the heavens with black, yield day to night!
Comets, importing change of times and states,
your crystal tresses in the sky,
And with them scourge the bad revolting stars
That have consented unto
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 sparking eyes, replete with
More dazzled and drove back his enemies
Than mid-day sun fierce bent against their faces.
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,
bound to a triumphant car.
What! shall we curse the planets of mishap
That plotted thus our glory's overthrow?
shall we think the subtle-witted French
Conjurers and sorcerers, that afraid of him
By magic verses have
contrived his end?
He was a king bless'd of the King of kings.
Unto the French the dreadful judgement-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
The church! where is it? Had not churchmen pray'd,
His thread of life had not so soon decay'd:
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 lovest the flesh,
And ne'er throughout the year to church thou go'st
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:
gold, we'll offer up our arms:
Since arms avail not now that Henry's dead.
Posterity, await for wretched
When at their mothers' moist eyes babes shall suck,
Our isle be made a nourish of salt tears,
none but women left to wail the dead.
Henry the Fifth, thy ghost I invocate:
Prosper this realm, keep it
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