Manual Henry V

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No heroic 'St Crispian's Day' a la Olivier here.


Taking Henry out of the confines of the play within a play which tended to stagnate the film was a good move. This is definitely the best Shakespeare film to involve Branagh, standing head and shoulders above this bloated Hamlet, the crass Love's Labour's Lost, the trite Much Ado. A clever Henry V, then, with costumes for the period, but a relevance to the times. We might not engage in close combat any more, but this Henry gives a sense of the futility of war, not just its glories. Start your free trial. Find showtimes, watch trailers, browse photos, track your Watchlist and rate your favorite movies and TV shows on your phone or tablet!

Keep track of everything you watch; tell your friends. Full Cast and Crew. William Shakespeare by , Kenneth Branagh adapted for the screen by. Movies written by William Shakespeare.

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Share this Rating Title: Henry V 7. Use the HTML below. You must be a registered user to use the IMDb rating plugin. User Polls Best Shakespeare movie adaptation with original dialogue? Learn more More Like This. Much Ado About Nothing A Midwinter's Tale Edit Cast Cast overview, first billed only: King Henry V Simon Shepherd Duke Humphrey of Gloucester James Larkin Duke John of Bedford Brian Blessed Duke Edward of York Paul Gregory Archbishop of Canterbury Alec McCowen Bishop of Ely Fabian Cartwright Earl Richard of Cambridge Stephen Simms Lord Henry Scroop Jay Villiers Sir Thomas Grey Edward Jewesbury Sir Thomas Erpingham Ian Holm Captain Fluellen Danny Webb Boy As duly, but not as truly, As bird doth sing on bough.

The Governor and some Citizens on the walls; the English forces below. This is the latest parle we will admit; Therefore to our best mercy give yourselves; Or like to men proud of destruction Defy us to our worst: The gates of mercy shall be all shut up, And the flesh'd soldier, rough and hard of heart, In liberty of bloody hand shall range With conscience wide as hell, mowing like grass Your fresh-fair virgins and your flowering infants. What is it then to me, if impious war, Array'd in flames like to the prince of fiends, Do, with his smirch'd complexion, all fell feats Enlink'd to waste and desolation?

What is't to me, when you yourselves are cause, If your pure maidens fall into the hand Of hot and forcing violation? What rein can hold licentious wickedness When down the hill he holds his fierce career? We may as bootless spend our vain command Upon the enraged soldiers in their spoil As send precepts to the leviathan To come ashore. Therefore, you men of Harfleur, Take pity of your town and of your people, Whiles yet my soldiers are in my command; Whiles yet the cool and temperate wind of grace O'erblows the filthy and contagious clouds Of heady murder, spoil and villany.

If not, why, in a moment look to see The blind and bloody soldier with foul hand Defile the locks of your shrill-shrieking daughters; Your fathers taken by the silver beards, And their most reverend heads dash'd to the walls, Your naked infants spitted upon pikes, Whiles the mad mothers with their howls confused Do break the clouds, as did the wives of Jewry At Herod's bloody-hunting slaughtermen.

Henry V (c.1387 - 1422)

The Dauphin, whom of succors we entreated, Returns us that his powers are yet not ready To raise so great a siege. Therefore, great king, We yield our town and lives to thy soft mercy. Enter our gates; dispose of us and ours; For we no longer are defensible. Come, uncle Exeter, Go you and enter Harfleur; there remain, And fortify it strongly 'gainst the French: Use mercy to them all.

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For us, dear uncle, The winter coming on and sickness growing Upon our soldiers, we will retire to Calais. To-night in Harfleur we will be your guest; To-morrow for the march are we addrest. The King and his train enter the town. Comment appelez-vous la main en Anglois? Je pense que je suis le bon ecolier; j'ai gagne deux mots d'Anglois vitement. Comment appelez-vous les ongles? Ecoutez; dites-moi, si je parle bien: Je m'en fais la repetition de tous les mots que vous m'avez appris des a present.

Comment appelez-vous le col? Le col, de nick; de menton, de sin. Sauf votre honneur, en verite, vous prononcez les mots aussi droit que les natifs d'Angleterre. Comment appelez-vous le pied et la robe? Neanmoins, je reciterai une autre fois ma lecon ensemble: Constable And if he be not fought withal, my lord, Let us not live in France; let us quit all And give our vineyards to a barbarous people.

Mort de ma vie! Constable Dieu de batailles! Is not their climate foggy, raw and dull, On whom, as in despite, the sun looks pale, Killing their fruit with frowns? Can sodden water, A drench for sur-rein'd jades, their barley-broth, Decoct their cold blood to such valiant heat? And shall our quick blood, spirited with wine, Seem frosty? O, for honour of our land, Let us not hang like roping icicles Upon our houses' thatch, whiles a more frosty people Sweat drops of gallant youth in our rich fields! Poor we may call them in their native lords. Let him greet England with our sharp defiance.

Bar Harry England, that sweeps through our land With pennons painted in the blood of Harfleur: Rush on his host, as doth the melted snow Upon the valleys, whose low vassal seat The Alps doth spit and void his rheum upon: Go down upon him, you have power enough, And in a captive chariot into Rouen Bring him our prisoner. Constable This becomes the great. Sorry am I his numbers are so few, His soldiers sick and famish'd in their march, For I am sure, when he shall see our army, He'll drop his heart into the sink of fear And for achievement offer us his ransom.

And let him say to England that we send To know what willing ransom he will give. Prince Dauphin, you shall stay with us in Rouen. Now forth, lord constable and princes all, And quickly bring us word of England's fall. There is an aunchient lieutenant there at the pridge, I think in my very conscience he is as valiant a man as Mark Antony; and he is a man of no estimation in the world; but did see him do as gallant service.

I have the best armour of the world. Would it were day! Constable It is the best horse of Europe. I will not change my horse with any that treads but on four pasterns. When I bestride him, I soar, I am a hawk: It is a beast for Perseus: Constable Indeed, my lord, it is a most absolute and excellent horse. DAUPHIN Nay, the man hath no wit that cannot, from the rising of the lark to the lodging of the lamb, vary deserved praise on my palfrey: I once writ a sonnet in his praise and began thus: Constable Nay, for methought yesterday your mistress shrewdly shook your back.

Constable Mine was not bridled. Constable You have good judgment in horsemanship. I had rather have my horse to my mistress. Constable I had as lief have my mistress a jade. Constable I could make as true a boast as that, if I had a sow to my mistress. Constable Yet do I not use my horse for my mistress, or any such proverb so little kin to the purpose. Constable Stars, my lord. Constable And yet my sky shall not want. Constable Even as your horse bears your praises; who would trot as well, were some of your brags dismounted.

Will it never be day? I will trot to-morrow a mile, and my way shall be paved with English faces.

Constable I will not say so, for fear I should be faced out of my way: Constable You must first go yourself to hazard, ere you have them. 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 umber'd face; Steed threatens steed, in high and boastful neighs Piercing the night's dull ear, and from the tents The armourers, 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 name.

Proud of their numbers and secure in soul, The confident and over-lusty 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 condemned 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 ruin'd band Walking from watch to watch, from tent to tent, Let him cry 'Praise and glory on his head! 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 colour Unto the weary and all-watched night, But freshly looks and over-bears attaint With cheerful semblance and sweet majesty; That every wretch, pining and pale before, Beholding him, plucks comfort from his looks: A largess universal like the sun His liberal eye doth give to every one, 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! Yet sit and see, Minding true things by what their mockeries be. Good morrow, brother Bedford. There is some soul of goodness in things evil, Would men observingly distil it out. For our bad neighbour makes us early stirrers, Which is both healthful and good husbandry: Besides, they are our outward consciences, And preachers to us all, admonishing That we should dress us fairly for our end.

Thus may we gather honey from the weed, And make a moral of the devil himself. L'air et la feu. God be wi' you, princes all; I'll to my charge: If we no more meet till we meet in heaven, Then, joyfully, my noble Lord of Bedford, My dear Lord Gloucester, and my good Lord Exeter, And my kind kinsman, warriors all, adieu! And yet I do thee wrong to mind thee of it, For thou art framed of the firm truth of valour.

Henry V: The Warrior-Prince

French Soldier Je pense que vous etes gentilhomme de bonne qualite. Art thou a gentleman? French Soldier O Seigneur Dieu! French Soldier O, prenez misericorde! French Soldier Est-il impossible d'echapper la force de ton bras? Thou damned and luxurious mountain goat, Offer'st me brass? French Soldier O pardonnez moi! French Soldier Monsieur le Fer. Boy He says his name is Master Fer. I'll fer him, and firk him, and ferret him: Boy I do not know the French for fer, and ferret, and firk. French Soldier Que dit-il, monsieur?

Boy Il me commande de vous dire que vous faites vous pret; car ce soldat ici est dispose tout a cette heure de couper votre gorge. French Soldier O, je vous supplie, pour l'amour de Dieu, me pardonner! Je suis gentilhomme de bonne maison: Boy He prays you to save his life: French Soldier Petit monsieur, que dit-il?

Boy Encore qu'il est contre son jurement de pardonner aucun prisonnier, neanmoins, pour les ecus que vous l'avez promis, il est content de vous donner la liberte, le franchisement. French Soldier Sur mes genoux je vous donne mille remercimens; et je m'estime heureux que je suis tombe entre les mains d'un chevalier, je pense, le plus brave, vaillant, et tres distingue seigneur d'Angleterre. Boy He gives you, upon his knees, a thousand thanks; and he esteems himself happy that he hath fallen into the hands of one, as he thinks, the most brave, valorous, and thrice-worthy signieur of England.

Boy Suivez-vous le grand capitaine. Reproach and everlasting shame Sits mocking in our plumes.

Do not run away. But all's not done; yet keep the French the field. 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! He smiled me in the face, raught me his hand, And, with a feeble gripe, says 'Dear my lord, Commend my service to me sovereign.

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The pretty and sweet manner of it forced 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. GOWER 'Tis certain there's not a boy left alive; and the cowardly rascals that ran from the battle ha' done this slaughter: O, 'tis a gallant king! What call you the town's name where Alexander the Pig was born!

I tell you, captain, if you look in the maps of the 'orld, I warrant you sall find, in the comparisons between Macedon and Monmouth, that the situations, look you, is both alike. There is a river in Macedon; and there is also moreover a river at Monmouth: If you mark Alexander's life well, Harry of Monmouth's life is come after it indifferent well; for there is figures in all things. Alexander, God knows, and you know, in his rages, and his furies, and his wraths, and his cholers, and his moods, and his displeasures, and his indignations, and also being a little intoxicates in his prains, did, in his ales and his angers, look you, kill his best friend, Cleitus.

I speak but in the figures and comparisons of it: I'll tell you there is good men porn at Monmouth. Now we bear the king Toward Calais: Behold, the English beach Pales in the flood with men, with wives and boys, Whose shouts and claps out-voice the deep mouth'd sea, Which like a mighty whiffler 'fore the king Seems to prepare his way: