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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=458941" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Agincourt</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">FAIR stood the wind for France <br>When we our sails advance, <br>Nor now to prove our chance <br> Longer will tarry; <br>But putting to the main, <br>At Caux, the mouth of Seine, <br>With all his martial train <br> Landed King Harry. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">And taking many a fort, <br>Furnish'd in warlike sort, <br>Marcheth tow'rds Agincourt <br> In happy hour; <br>Skirmishing day by day <br>With those that stopp'd his way, <br>Where the French gen'ral lay <br> With all his power. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Which, in his height of pride, <br>King Henry to deride, <br>His ransom to provide <br> Unto him sending; <br>Which he neglects the while <br>As from a nation vile, <br>Yet with an angry smile <br> Their fall portending. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">And turning to his men, <br>Quoth our brave Henry then, <br>'Though they to one be ten <br> Be not amazed: <br>Yet have we well begun; <br>Battles so bravely won <br>Have ever to the sun <br> By fame been raised. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">'And for myself (quoth he) <br>This my full rest shall be: <br>England ne'er mourn for me <br> Nor more esteem me: <br>Victor I will remain <br>Or on this earth lie slain, <br>Never shall she sustain <br> Loss to redeem me. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">'Poitiers and Cressy tell, <br>When most their pride did swell, <br>Under our swords they fell: <br> No less our skill is <br>Than when our grandsire great, <br>Claiming the regal seat, <br>By many a warlike feat <br> Lopp'd the French lilies.' </div><div style="margin:10px 0">The Duke of York so dread <br>The eager vaward led; <br>With the main Henry sped <br> Among his henchmen. <br>Excester had the rear, <br>A braver man not there; <br>O Lord, how hot they were <br> On the false Frenchmen! </div><div style="margin:10px 0">They now to fight are gone, <br>Armour on armour shone, <br>Drum now to drum did groan, <br> To hear was wonder; <br>That with the cries they make <br>The very earth did shake: <br>Trumpet to trumpet spake, <br> Thunder to thunder. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Well it thine age became, <br>O noble Erpingham, <br>Which didst the signal aim <br> To our hid forces! <br>When from a meadow by, <br>Like a storm suddenly <br>The English archery <br> Stuck the French horses. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">With Spanish yew so strong, <br>Arrows a cloth-yard long <br>That like to serpents stung, <br> Piercing the weather; <br>None from his fellow starts, <br>But playing manly parts, <br>And like true English hearts <br> Stuck close together. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">When down their bows they threw, <br>And forth their bilbos drew, <br>And on the French they flew, <br> Not one was tardy; <br>Arms were from shoulders sent, <br>Scalps to the teeth were rent, <br>Down the French peasants went-- <br> Our men were hardy. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">This while our noble king, <br>His broadsword brandishing, <br>Down the French host did ding <br> As to o'erwhelm it; <br>And many a deep wound lent, <br>His arms with blood besprent, <br>And many a cruel dent <br> Bruised his helmet. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Gloster, that duke so good, <br>Next of the royal blood, <br>For famous England stood <br> With his brave brother; <br>Clarence, in steel so bright, <br>Though but a maiden knight, <br>Yet in that furious fight <br> Scarce such another. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Warwick in blood did wade, <br>Oxford the foe invade, <br>And cruel slaughter made <br> Still as they ran up; <br>Suffolk his axe did ply, <br>Beaumont and Willoughby <br>Bare them right doughtily, <br> Ferrers and Fanhope. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Upon Saint Crispin's Day <br>Fought was this noble fray, <br>Which fame did not delay <br> To England to carry. <br>O when shall English men <br>With such acts fill a pen? <br>Or England breed again <br> Such a King Harry?</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Michael+Drayton">Michael Drayton</a><div class=q> <img src="https://www.citatepedia.ro/g/32share.png" style="float:left" alt="Share"> <script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=458941" data-title="Agincourt de Michael Drayton" data-description="FAIR stood the wind for France When we our sails advance, Nor now to prove our chance Longer will tarry; But putting to the main, At Caux, the mouth of Seine, With all his martial train Landed King Harry...."></div> </div> </div>
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