Find prey; till, tir'd at length, sated and tir'd
With the still changing sameness, old variety,
We sit us down, and view our former joys
As worthless.

Prince. Then, if we must tug for experience,
Let us not fear to beat round Nature's wilds
And rouse the strongest prey; then if we fall,
We fall with glory: for I know the wolf

Is dangerous to fight, not good for food,
Nor is the hide a comely vestment; so
We have our battle for our pains. I know
That youth has need of age to point fit prey,
And oft the stander-by shall steal the fruit
Of the other's labour. This is philosophy;
These are the tricks of the world; but the pure soul
Shall mount on wings, disdaining little sport,

And cut a path into the heaven of glory,
Leaving a track of light for men to wonder at.
I'm glad my father does not hear me talk:
You can find friendly excuses for me, Chandos;
But, do you not think, Sir John, that if it please
The Almighty to stretch out my span of life
I shall with pleasure view a glorious action
Which my youth master'd?

Chand. Age, my lord, views motives,

And views not acts. When neither warbling voice
Nor trilling pipe is heard, nor pleasure sits

With trembling age, the voice of Conscience, then
Sweeter than music in a summer's eve,

Shall warble round the snowy head, and keep

Sweet symphony to feather'd angels sitting

As guardians round your chair; then shall the pulse
Beat slow; and taste and touch, sight, sound, and smell,
That sing and dance round Reason's fine-wrought throne,

Shall flee away, and leave him all forlorn-
Yet not forlorn if Conscience is his friend.

[Exeunt.

SCENE V.-In SIR THOMAS DAGWORTH'S Tent. To him enters SIR WALTER MANNY.

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

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

Sir Walter. I know this breathing flesh must lie and rot Cover'd with silence and forgetfulness.

Death wons 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 about upon their beds,
Talking with Death, answering his hard demands !
How many walk in darkness, terrors around
The curtains of their beds, destruction still
Ready without the door! how many sleep
In earth, cover'd 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 on angels' wings:

How terrible, then, is the field of death!

Where he doth rend the vault of heav'n, and shake
The gates of hell! Oh, Dagworth! France is sick:
The very sky, tho' 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.

Dagw. 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 prepar'd in shining heav'n,

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,

And seem to scent the rotten carcases!

I seem to hear the dismal yells of Death,

While the black gore drops from his horrid jaws;
Yet I not fear the monster in his pride.-

But oh, the souls that are to die to-day!

Dagw. Stop, brave Sir Walter, let me drop a tear, Then let the clarion of war begin;

I'll fight and weep! 'tis in my country's cause;

I'll weep and shout for glorious liberty.

Grim War shall laugh and shout, bedeck'd in tears,

And blood shall flow like streams across the meadows,
That murmur down their pebbly channels, and
Spend their sweet lives to do their country service.

Then England's leaves shall shoot, her fields shall smile,
Her ships shall sing across the foaming sea,

Her mariners shall use the flute and viol,
And rattling guns and black and dreary war

Shall be no more.

Sir Walter. Well, let the trumpet sound and the drum beat;

Let war stain the blue heavens with bloody banners.

I'll draw my sword, nor ever sheath it up,
Till England blow the trump of victory,
Or I lie stretch'd upon the field of death.

[Exeunt.

SCENE VI.-In the Camp. the King's Tent.

Several of the Warriors met in
A Minstrel sings.

O Sons of Trojan Brutus, cloth'd in war,
Whose voices are the thunder of the field,

Your ancestors came from the fires of Troy,
(Like lions rous'd by lightning from their dens,
Whose eyes do glare against the stormy fires,)
Heated with war, fill'd with the blood of Greeks,
With helmets hewn, and shields covered with gore,
In navies black, broken with wind and tide.

They landed in firm array upon the rocks

Of Albion; they kiss'd the rocky shore:

Be thou our mother and our nurse,' they said, 'Our children's mother; and thou shalt be our grave, The sepulchre of ancient Troy, from whence 'Shall rise cities, and thrones, and awful powers.'

Our fathers swarm from the ships. Giant voices
Are heard from out the hills; the enormous sons
Of Ocean run from rocks and caves: wild men,
Naked, and roaring like lions, hurling rocks,
And wielding knotty clubs, like oaks entangled,
Thick as a forest ready for the axe.

Our fathers move in firm array to battle;
The savage monsters rush like roaring fire,
Like as a forest roars with crackling flames,
When the red lightning borne by furious storms

Lights on some woody shore, and the parch'd heavens Rain fire into the molten raging sea.

Our fathers, sweating, lean on their spears and view

The mighty dead: giant bodies streaming blood,
Dread visages frowning in silent death.

Then Brutus speaks, inspired; our fathers sit
Attentive on the melancholy shore.

Hear ye the voice of Brutus:-The flowing waves
'Of Time come rolling o'er my breast,' he said,

'And my heart labours with futurity.

'Our sons shall rule the empire of the sea,

'Their mighty wings shall stretch from east to west; 'Their nest is in the sea, but they shall roam

'Like eagles for their prey

'Our sons shall rise from thrones in joy, each one 'Buckling his armour on; Morning shall be 'Prevented by the gleaming of their swords, 'And Evening hear their song of victory.

'Freedom shall stand upon the cliffs of Albion,
'Casting her blue eyes over the green ocean;
'Or, towering, stand upon the roaring waves,
'Stretching her mighty spear o'er distant lands,
'While with her eagle wings she covereth
'Fair Albion's shore and all her families.'