Well have we done, thrice valiant countrymen.

But all’s not done; yet keep the French the field.

The Duke of York commends him to your Majesty.

Lives he, good uncle? Thrice within this hour

I saw him down; thrice up again, and fighting.

From helmet to the spur all blood he was.

In which array, brave soldier, doth he lie,

Larding the plain; and by his bloody side,

Yoke-fellow to his honour-owing wounds,

The noble Earl of Suffolk also lies.

Suffolk first died; and York, all haggled over,

Comes to him, where in gore he lay insteeped,

And takes him by the beard; kisses the gashes

That bloodily did yawn upon his face.

He cries aloud, “Tarry, my cousin Suffolk!

My soul shall thine keep company to heaven;

Tarry, sweet soul, for mine, then fly abreast,

As in this glorious and well-foughten field

We kept together in our chivalry.”

Upon these words I came and cheer’d him up.

He smil’d me in the face, raught me his hand,

And, with a feeble gripe, says, “Dear my lord,

Commend my service to my sovereign.”

So did he turn and over Suffolk’s neck

He threw his wounded arm and kiss’d his lips;

And so espous’d to death, with blood he seal’d

A testament of noble-ending love.

The pretty and sweet manner of it forc’d

Those waters from me which I would have stopp’d;

But I had not so much of man in me,

And all my mother came into mine eyes

And gave me up to tears.

I blame you not;

For, hearing this, I must perforce compound

With mistful eyes, or they will issue too.

But hark! what new alarum is this same?

The French have reinforc’d their scatter’d men.

Then every soldier kill his prisoners;

Give the word through.