In happy houre.
Skirmishing day by day,
With those that stop'd his way,
Where the French gen'ral lay
With all his power.

Which in his hight of pride.
King Henry to deride,
His ransom to prouide,
To our king sending.
Which he neglects the while,
As from a nation vile,
Yet with an angry smile,
Their fall portending.

And turning to his men,
Quoth our brave Henry, then,
"Though they to one be ten,
Be not amazed,
Yet have we well begunne,
Battells so bravely wonne,
Have ever to the sonne,
By fame beene raysed."

"And for myself," quoth he,
"This my full rest shall be,
England ne'er mourn for me,
Nor more esteem me.
Victor I will remaine,
Or on this earth be slaine,