Henry V

Nonsense. I have the best armor in the world. I wish it were day!

You have wonderful armor, but give my horse his due.

It is the best horse in Europe.

Will it never be morning?

My lord of Orléans, and my lord high Constable, are you talking about horses and armor?

You are as well provided in both respects as any prince in the world.

What a long night this is! I will not trade my horse for any that walks on four legs. He leaps from the ground as if his insides were light as hairs. He’s a flying horse, a Pegasus, breathing fire out of his nostrils. When I sit astride him, I soar, I am a hawk. He trots on air. The earth sings when he touches it. The lowest part of his hoof is more musical than Pan’s pipe.

He’s the color of nutmeg.

And hot as ginger. He is an animal worthy of Perseus. He is pure air and fire. The duller elements of earth and water have no part in him, except in the moment of patient stillness when his rider mounts him. He is indeed worthy of the name “horse,” and you can call all the rest beasts.

Indeed, my lord, he is a perfectly wonderful horse.

He is the prince of horses. His neigh is like a monarch’s command. His face demands respect.

Enough, cousin.

No, the man who cannot extol the virtues of my horse from dawn to dusk is not particularly clever. It’s a subject as worthy of endless discussion as the changing sea. If each grain of sand had a tongue to eulogize, my horse would be a topic for them all. He is a subject for a king to contemplate, and for a king’s king to ride on, and for the world at large—both friend and stranger—to stop whatever they are doing and marvel at. I once wrote a sonnet in his praise which began, “Wonder of nature—”

I have heard a sonnet to one’s mistress that began like that.

Then the writer imitated the one I composed to my steed, for my horse is my mistress.

Your mistress is a good mount.

A good mount for me—and that’s the highest praise and very definition of a good mistress, that she belong to one alone.

Yes, but yesterday I could have sworn your mistress gave you a bumpy ride.

So, perhaps, did yours.

Mine wasn’t wearing a bridle.

Oh, then I guess she was old and gentle, and you rode barelegged, like an Irish yokel.

You’re a good judge of horsemanship.

Take a tip from me, then. Those who don’t take care when they ride often find themselves thrown into a messy situation. I’d rather have my horse than a mistress.

I’d prefer to keep my mistress rather than some lame horse.

I’ll tell you this, Constable, my mistress has his own hair.

I could make the same boast even if I had a pig as my mistress.

“The dog returns to its own vomit, and the newly washed sow to its mud puddle.” You’d take anything for a mistress.

At least I don’t have a horse for my mistress—or a saying so beside the point.

My Lord Constable, are those stars or suns I saw on the armor in your tent tonight?

Stars, my lord.

I hope some will fall off tomorrow.

And yet I’ll still have plenty.

No doubt, for you wear too many in the first place, and it might be more seemly to make do with fewer.

Yes, like your horse, who, staggering under your boasts, would trot more easily if some of them dismounted.

I only wish I could load him up with all the praise he deserves! Oh, will it never be day? I will ride out a mile tomorrow and leave the road paved with the faces of dead Englishmen.

I’d say the same thing, but I’m afraid I’d be faced out of my way. But I do wish it were morning, for I long to be mixing it up with the English.

Would anyone like to bet twenty prisoners with me?

You’ll have to take some chances yourself before you catch them.

It’s midnight. I’ll go put my armor on.

The Dauphin really wants it to be morning.

He wants to eat the English.

I think he’ll eat everyone he kills.

By my mistress’ white hand, he’s a gallant prince.

Swear by her foot, so she can stamp out the oath.

He’s definitely the most active gentleman of France.

Performing is activity, and he is always doing that.

He never did harm that I heard of.

And he’s not going to do any tomorrow. That part of his reputation will stand.

I know him to be valiant.

I was told that by one who knows him better than you.

Who was that?

Why, he told me so himself, and he said he didn’t care who knew it.

He doesn’t have to care. His virtue is not hidden.

Oh, but it is, sir. No one but his valet ever saw it. His courage is hidden, and when it is revealed, it will shrink.

Ill will never prompted anything well said.

I’ll challenge that proverb with one of my own: “There is flattery in friendship.”

And I’ll match that with “Give the devil his due.”

Very apt! Your friend is equated with the devil. I’ll go straight for that proverb with “To hell with the devil.”

You are better at proverbs than I am by as much as “A fool shoots quickly and overshoots his mark.”

You have overshot.

I’ve outshot you, and not for the first time.

My Lord High Constable, the English lie within fifteen hundred paces of your tents.

Who measured the ground?

The Lord Grandpré.

A very valiant and knowledgeable gentleman. If only it were day! Poor Harry of England! He doesn’t long for the dawn as we do.

What a miserable and obstinate fellow this king of England is, to blunder with his fat-headed followers so far beyond his capacity.

If the English had any sense, they would run away.

Well, obviously they don’t. If there were anything inside their heads, they could never wear such heavy helmets.

That island of England breeds very valiant creatures. Their hounds are unequaled in courage.

Foolish dogs, blindly running straight toward a Russian bear only to have their heads crushed like rotten apples. You might just as well say, “That’s a valiant flea that dares to eat its breakfast on the lip of a lion.”

Yes, exactly. And the men resemble their English hounds in their loud, showy ferocity, too, leaving their brains behind with their wives. Give them hefty meals of beef and iron and steel, and they will eat like wolves and fight like devils.

Yes, but these English are seriously short of beef.

Then tomorrow we’ll find that they feel only like eating, not like fighting. It’s time to put our armor on. Shall we get started?

It’s two o’clock now. But let me see, by ten we shall each have captured a hundred Englishmen.