Well have we done, thrice valiant countrymen.
But all’s not done; yet keep the French the field.
We have fought well, three times brave countrymen. But we're not finished yet; the French still control the battlefield.
We've done great, incredibly brave soldiers. But the job's not done—the French still hold the field.
we did good brave soldiers but french still got the field
The Duke of York commends him to your Majesty.
The Duke of York sends you his regards, your Majesty.
The Duke of York wants you to know he's honored to serve you, your Majesty.
york sends his respects to you
Henry's order to kill all French prisoners — conveyed in three lines of off-handed verse — is the most morally disturbing moment in the play, and Shakespeare does not linger on it. Historically, Henry V did order the killing of prisoners at Agincourt, though the reasons are debated: some historians say it was a tactical response to a rumored French rally; others point to the massacre of the English boys and baggage-keepers. In chivalric law, killing surrendered prisoners was a serious violation. Shakespeare gives Henry the cover of military necessity and the Boys' deaths as moral justification, but the order itself is simply stated and the audience must reckon with it. Fluellen's outrage in 4-7 is directed at the boys' massacre, not the prisoner killing — which tells us something about contemporary attitudes. But the discomfort is there, and Shakespeare puts it there deliberately.
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.
Is he alive, good uncle? Three times in this past hour I saw him knocked down; three times he got up again and kept fighting. From his helmet to his spurs he was covered in blood.
Is he still alive, uncle? I saw him get knocked down three times in the last hour, and three times he got back up fighting. He was covered in blood from head to foot.
he alive? i saw him go down 3 times and get back up 3 times he was bleeding everywhere
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.
In that state, brave soldier, he lies, Covering the field; and by his bloody side, Beside the wounds that brought him honor, The noble Earl of Suffolk also lies. Suffolk died first; and York, all mangled, Comes to him, where in blood he lay soaked, And takes him by the beard; kisses the wounds That were bleeding open on his face. He cries out loud, "Wait, my cousin Suffolk! My soul will keep yours company to heaven; Wait, sweet soul, for mine, then fly together, As in this glorious and well-fought field We stayed together in our chivalry." Upon these words I came and cheered him up. He smiled at me, reached me his hand, And, with a weak grip, says, "Dear my lord, Commend my service to my sovereign." So he turned and over Suffolk's neck He threw his wounded arm and kissed his lips; And so joined to death, with blood he sealed A final testament of noble love. The beautiful and sweet way he did it forced Those tears from me which I would have stopped; But I had not enough of man in me, And all my mother came into my eyes And gave me over to tears.
There he lies, brave soldier, Covering the field with his blood; and next to him lies The noble Earl of Suffolk, sharing his honor-earning wounds. Suffolk died first; and York, all cut up, Comes to where Suffolk lay soaked in blood, Grabs him by the beard, and kisses the gaping wounds On his face. He shouts, "Wait, cousin Suffolk! I'll take your soul to heaven with me; Wait for me, my friend, then we'll fly to heaven together, Just like we fought together in this glorious battle." When I heard this, I went to comfort him. He smiled at me and took my hand, And with a weak grip said, "Please, my lord, Tell the King I served him loyally." Then he turned and threw his wounded arm over Suffolk's neck, And kissed him; And dying right there beside Suffolk, he sealed With his blood a final act of noble love. The beautiful and gentle way he did it Made me cry—tears I wanted to hold back; But I couldn't stay strong, And suddenly I was overwhelmed and crying.
york finds suffolk dead on the field grabs his beard kisses his wounds cries—i'll take you to heaven we fought together let's go together it was so beautiful and tender i couldn't hold back the tears everything hit me at once
I blame you not;
For, hearing this, I must perforce compound
With mistful eyes, or they will issue too.
I don't blame you at all; For, hearing this, I must accept That my eyes will become misty, or tears will flow from them too.
I don't blame you for crying; Hearing that story, I have to make peace with my own teary eyes, or I'll start crying too.
i don't blame you this story is making me tear up too
Exeter's description of York and Suffolk's deaths is the most emotionally intimate passage in a play full of public rhetoric. The image of York kissing Suffolk's wounds, urging his soul to wait so they can fly to heaven together, is a portrait of male love as fierce and tender as anything in the comedies. 'As in this glorious and well-fought field we kept together in our chivalry' — they fought together, died together, and York cannot imagine going to heaven without him. Shakespeare gives this scene to Exeter as a witnessed account rather than a staged event, which makes it more moving: the audience imagines it rather than seeing it. Henry's near-tears are the play's most private moment of emotion, and it lasts about thirty seconds before the alarum sounds.
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.
Wait, listen! What new alarm is this? The French have gathered their scattered troops together. Therefore every soldier must kill his prisoners. Give the order throughout the army.
Hold on—what's that noise? The French are regrouping! Every soldier: kill your prisoners. Spread the word.
wait what's that? french regrouping kill the prisoners now spread it
The Reckoning
The briefest and most emotionally complex scene in Act 4. Henry almost weeps hearing about York and Suffolk's deaths — the human king visible for a moment beneath the warrior king. Then an alarum sounds, the French are regrouping, and Henry snaps back into command and gives the most morally troubling order in the play: kill all the prisoners. The scene moves in forty seconds from tenderness to brutality, which is exactly what war requires.
If this happened today…
A CEO pauses in the middle of a crisis call to be genuinely moved by news that two trusted colleagues were lost in the process. For thirty seconds, everyone on the call sees the human being. Then another alarm comes in — everything's about to collapse — and he's back: cold, fast, ruthless. Whatever he just felt has to be suspended. The call goes on.