besmirched

I pray thee bear my former answer back .
Bid them achieve me and then sell my bones .
Good God , why should they mock poor fellows
thus ?
The man that once did sell the lion’s skin
While the beast lived was killed with hunting him .
A many of our bodies shall no doubt
Find native graves , upon the which , I trust ,
Shall witness live in brass of this day’s work .
And those that leave their valiant bones in France ,
Dying like men , though buried in your dunghills ,
They shall be famed ; for there the sun shall greet
them
And draw their honors reeking up to heaven ,
Leaving their earthly parts to choke your clime ,
The smell whereof shall breed a plague in France .
Mark , then , abounding valor in our English ,
That being dead , like to the bullet’s crazing ,
Break out into a second course of mischief ,
Killing in relapse of mortality .
Let me speak proudly : tell the Constable
We are but warriors for the working day ;
Our gayness and our gilt are all besmirched
With rainy marching in the painful field .
There’s not a piece of feather in our host —
Good argument , I hope , we will not fly —
And time hath worn us into slovenry .
But , by the Mass , our hearts are in the trim ,
And my poor soldiers tell me , yet ere night
They’ll be in fresher robes , or they will pluck
The gay new coats o’er the French soldiers’ heads
And turn them out of service . If they do this ,
As , if God please , they shall , my ransom then
Will soon be levied . Herald , save thou thy labor .
Come thou no more for ransom , gentle herald .
They shall have none , I swear , but these my joints ,
Which , if they have , as I will leave ’em them ,
Shall yield them little , tell the Constable .