squire, and given him I don't know what, and I can't tell whether he don't mention us all one by one; and he is to write another about all us that are to die, that we may be remembered in Old England, for all our blood and bones are in France; and a great deal more that we shall all hear by-andby. And I came to tell your honour, because you love to hear war-songs.

DAGWORTH.

And who is this minstrel, Peter, dost know?

PETER.

Oh, ay, I forgot to tell that; he has got the same name as Sir John Chandos that the Prince is always with the wise man that knows us all as well as your honour, only ain't so good-natured.

DAGWORTH.

I thank you, Peter, for your information, but not for your compliment, which is not true.

There's

as much difference between him and me as between

glittering sand and fruitful mould; or shining glass and a wrought diamond, set in rich gold, and fitted to the finger of an Emperor; such is that worthy Chandos.

PETER.

I know your honour does not think anything of yourself, but everybody else does.

DAGWORTH.

Go, Peter, get you gone; flattery is delicious, even from the lips of a babbler.

Why, you know, sir, when we were in England, at the tournament at Windsor, and the Earl of

Warwick was tumbled over, you asked me if he did not look well when he fell; and I said no, he looked very foolish; and you were very angry with me for not flattering you.

DAGWORTH.

You mean that I was angry with you for not flattering the Earl of Warwick.

[Exeunt.

SCENE.-Sir Thomas Dagworth's Tent.

SIR THOMAS DAGWORTH. To him enters SIR

WALTER MANNY.

SIR WALTER.

Sir Thomas Dagworth, I have been weeping
Over the men that are to die to-day.

DAGWORTH.

Why, brave Sir Walter, you or I may fall.

SIR WALTER.

I know this breathing flesh must lie and rot,
Covered with silence and forgetfulness.

Death roams in cities' smoke, and in still night,
When men sleep in their beds, walketh about.
How many in walled cities lie and groan,
Turning themselves upon their beds,

Talking with Death, answering his hard demands !
How many walk in darkness, terrors are round
The curtains of their beds, destruction is

Ready at the door! How many sleep

In earth, covered with stones and deathy dust,
Resting in quietness, whose spirits walk

Upon the clouds of heaven, to die no more!

Yet death is terrible, though borne on angels wings.

How terrible then is the field of death.
Where he doth rend the vault of heaven,
And shake the gates of hell!

O Dagworth, France is sick! the very sky,
Though sunshine light it, seems to me as pale
As the pale fainting man on his death-bed,
Whose face is shown by light of sickly taper.

It makes me sad and sick at very heart;
Thousands must fall to-day.

DAGWORTH.

Thousands of souls must leave this prison-house,
To be exalted to those heavenly fields

Where songs of triumph, palms of victory,
Where peace and joy and love and calm content,
Sit singing in the azure clouds, and strew

Flowers of heaven's growth over the banquet-table.
Bind ardent hope upon your feet like shoes,
Put on the robe of preparation !

The table is prepared in shining heaven,
The flowers of immortality are blown ;

Let those that fight fight in good steadfastness,
And those that fall shall rise in victory.

SIR WALTER.

I've often seen the burning field of war,
And often heard the dismal clang of arms;
But never, till this fatal day of Cressy,

Has my soul fainted with these views of death.
I seem to be in one great charnel-house,