umbered

Now entertain conjecture of a time
When creeping murmur and the poring dark
Fills the wide vessel of the universe .
From camp to camp , through the foul womb of
night ,
The hum of either army stilly sounds ,
That the fixed sentinels almost receive
The secret whispers of each other’s watch .
Fire answers fire , and through their paly flames
Each battle sees the other’s umbered face ;
Steed threatens steed in high and boastful neighs
Piercing the night’s dull ear ; and from the tents
The armorers , accomplishing the knights ,
With busy hammers closing rivets up ,
Give dreadful note of preparation .
The country cocks do crow , the clocks do toll ,
And , the third hour of drowsy morning named ,
Proud of their numbers and secure in soul ,
The confident and overlusty French
Do the low-rated English play at dice
And chide the cripple , tardy-gaited night ,
Who like a foul and ugly witch doth limp
So tediously away . The poor condemnèd English ,
Like sacrifices , by their watchful fires
Sit patiently and inly ruminate
The morning’s danger ; and their gesture sad ,
Investing lank-lean cheeks and war-worn coats ,
Presenteth them unto the gazing moon
So many horrid ghosts . O now , who will behold
The royal captain of this ruined band
Walking from watch to watch , from tent to tent ,
Let him cry , Praise and glory on his head !
For forth he goes and visits all his host ,
Bids them good morrow with a modest smile ,
And calls them brothers , friends , and countrymen .
Upon his royal face there is no note
How dread an army hath enrounded him ,
Nor doth he dedicate one jot of color
Unto the weary and all-watchèd night ,
But freshly looks and overbears attaint
With cheerful semblance and sweet majesty ,
That every wretch , pining and pale before ,
Beholding him , plucks comfort from his looks .
A largesse universal , like the sun ,
His liberal eye doth give to everyone ,
Thawing cold fear , that mean and gentle all
Behold , as may unworthiness define ,
A little touch of Harry in the night .
And so our scene must to the battle fly ,
Where , O for pity , we shall much disgrace ,
With four or five most vile and ragged foils
Right ill-disposed in brawl ridiculous ,
The name of Agincourt . Yet sit and see ,
Minding true things by what their mock’ries be .