aright.
Will. Then, Sir, I should be glad to know if it was not ambition that brought over our King to France to fight for his right?
Dagw. Tho' the knowledge of that will not profit thee much, yet I will tell you that it was ambition.
Will. Then, if ambition is a sin, we are all guilty in coming with him, and in fighting for him.
Dagw. Now, William, thou dost thrust the question home; but I must tell you that, guilt being an act of the mind, none are guilty but those whose minds are prompted by that same ambition.
Will. Now, I always thought that a man might be guilty of doing wrong without knowing it was wrong.
Dagw. Thou art a natural philosopher, and knowest truth by instinct, while reason runs aground, as we have run our argument. Only remember, William, all have it in their power to know the motives of their own actions, and 'tis a sin to act without some reason.
Will. And whoever acts without reason may do a great deal of harm without knowing it.
Dagw. Thou art an endless moralist.
Will. Now there's a story come into my head, that I will tell your honour if you'll give me leave.
Dagw. No, William, save it till another time; this is no time for story-telling. But here comes one who is as entertaining as a good story!

   Peter. Yonder's a musician going to play before the King; it's a new song about the French and English; and the Prince has made the minstrel a 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 and by; and I came to tell your honour, because you love to hear war-songs.
   Dagw. And who is this minstrel, Peter, dost know?
   Peter. O aye, 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.
   Dagw. 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.
   Dagw. Go, Peter, get you gone; flattery is delicious, even from the lips of a babbler. [Exit Peter.
   Will. I never flatter your honour.
   Dagw. I don't know that.
   Will. Why, you know, Sir, when we were in England, at the tournament at Windsor, and the Earl of Warwick was tumbled over, you ask'd me if he did not look well when he fell; and I said no, he look'd very foolish; and you was very angry with me for not flattering you.
   Dagw. 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 enter Sir Walter Manny.

   Sir Walter. Sir Thomas Dagworth, I have been 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 wallèd 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, 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, tho' 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,
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 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,
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 O! 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, deckèd 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