And teach them how to war. And you, good yeomen,
Whose limbs were made in England, show us here
The mettle of your pasture; let us swear
That you are worth your breeding; which I doubt not; 28
For there is none of you so mean and base
That hath not noble lustre in your eyes.
I see you stand like greyhounds in the slips,
Straining upon the start. The game's afoot: 32
Follow your spirit; and, upon this charge
Cry 'God for Harry, England, and Saint George!'
Scene Two
[The Same]
Enter Nym, Bardolph, Pistol, and Boy.
Bard. On, on, on, on, on! to the breach, to
the breach!
Nym. Pray thee, corporal, stay: the knocks
are too hot; and for mine own part, I have not 4
a case of lives: the humour of it is too hot, that
is the very plain-song of it.
Pist. The plain-song is most just, for hu-
mours do abound: 8
'Knocks go and come: God's vassals drop and die;
And sword and shield
In bloody field
Doth win immortal fame.' 12
Boy. Would I were in an alehouse in London!
I would give all my fame for a pot of ale, and
safety.
27 mettle of your pasture: quality of your rearing
31 in the slips: in leash
3 corporal; cf. n.
5 case: set
6 plain-song: simple truth; cf. n.
