["[Event happened on 2024-01-01 The user is reading a book]\n<User> Chorus. Now entertaine coniecture of a time,\nWhen creeping Murmure and the poring Darke\nFills the wide Vessell of the Vniuerse. From Camp to Camp, through the foule Womb of Night\nThe Humme of eyther Army stilly sounds;\nThat the fixt Centinels almost receiue\nThe secret Whispers of each others Watch. Fire answers fire, and through their paly flames\nEach Battaile sees the others vmber'd face. Steed threatens Steed, in high and boastfull Neighs\nPiercing the Nights dull Eare: and from the Tents,\nThe Armourers accomplishing the Knights,\nWith busie Hammers closing Riuets vp,\nGiue dreadfull note of preparation. The Countrey Cocks doe crow, the Clocks doe towle:\nAnd the third howre of drowsie Morning nam'd,\nProwd of their Numbers, and secure in Soule,\nThe confident and ouer-lustie French,\nDoe the low-rated English play at Dice;\nAnd chide the creeple-tardy-gated Night,\nWho like a foule and ougly Witch doth limpe\nSo tediously away. The poore condemned English,\nLike Sacrifices, by their watchfull Fires\nSit patiently, and inly ruminate\nThe Mornings danger: and their gesture sad,\nInuesting lanke-leane Cheekes, and Warre-worne Coats,\nPresented them vnto the gazing Moone\nSo many horride Ghosts. O now, who will behold\nThe Royall Captaine of this ruin'd Band\nWalking from Watch to Watch, from Tent to Tent;\nLet him cry, Prayse and Glory on his head:\nFor forth he goes, and visits all his Hoast,\nBids them good morrow with a modest Smyle,\nAnd calls them Brothers, Friends, and Countreymen. Vpon his Royall Face there is no note,\nHow dread an Army hath enrounded him;\nNor doth he dedicate one iot of Colour\nVnto the wearie and all-watched Night:\nBut freshly lookes, and ouer-beares Attaint,\nWith chearefull semblance, and sweet Maiestie:\nThat euery Wretch, pining and pale before,\nBeholding him, plucks comfort from his Lookes. A Largesse vniuersall, like the Sunne,\nHis liberall Eye doth giue to euery one,\nThawing cold feare, that meane and gentle all\nBehold, as may vnworthinesse define. A little touch of Harry in the Night,\nAnd so our Scene must to the Battaile flye:\nWhere, O for pitty, we shall much disgrace,\nWith foure or fiue most vile and ragged foyles,\n(Right ill dispos'd, in brawle ridiculous)\nThe Name of Agincourt: Yet sit and see,\nMinding true things, by what their Mock'ries bee. Enter. Enter the King, Bedford, and Gloucester. King. Gloster, 'tis true that we are in great danger,\nThe greater therefore should our Courage be. God morrow Brother Bedford: God Almightie,\nThere is some soule of goodnesse in things euill,\nWould men obseruingly distill it out. For our bad Neighbour makes vs early stirrers,\nWhich is both healthfull, and good husbandry. Besides, they are our outward Consciences,\nAnd Preachers to vs all; admonishing,\nThat we should dresse vs fairely for our end. Thus may we gather Honey from the Weed,\nAnd make a Morall of the Diuell himselfe. Enter Erpingham. Good morrow old Sir Thomas Erpingham:\nA good soft Pillow for that good white Head,\nWere better then a churlish turfe of France\n\n   Erping. Not so my Liege, this Lodging likes me better,\nSince I may say, now lye I like a King\n\n   King. 'Tis good for men to loue their present paines,\nVpon example, so the Spirit is eased:\nAnd when the Mind is quickned, out of doubt\nThe Organs, though defunct and dead before,\nBreake vp their drowsie Graue, and newly moue\nWith casted slough, and fresh legeritie. Lend me thy Cloake Sir Thomas: Brothers both,\nCommend me to the Princes in our Campe;\nDoe my good morrow to them, and anon\nDesire them all to my Pauillion\n\n   Gloster. We shall, my Liege\n\n   Erping. Shall I attend your Grace? King. No, my good Knight:\nGoe with my Brothers to my Lords of England:\nI and my Bosome must debate a while,\nAnd then I would no other company\n\n   Erping. The Lord in Heauen blesse thee, Noble\nHarry. Exeunt. King. God a mercy old Heart, thou speak'st chearefully. Enter Pistoll\n\n   Pist. Che vous la? King. A friend\n\n   Pist. Discusse vnto me, art thou Officer, or art thou\nbase, common, and popular? King. I am a Gentleman of a Company\n\n   Pist. Trayl'st thou the puissant Pyke? King. Euen so: what are you? Pist. As good a Gentleman as the Emperor\n\n   King. Then you are a better then the King\n\n   Pist. The King's a Bawcock, and a Heart of Gold, a\nLad of Life, an Impe of Fame, of Parents good, of Fist\nmost valiant: I kisse his durtie shooe, and from heartstring\nI loue the louely Bully. What is thy Name? King. Harry le Roy\n\n   Pist. Le Roy? a Cornish Name: art thou of Cornish Crew? King. No, I am a Welchman\n\n   Pist. Know'st thou Fluellen? King. Yes\n\n   Pist. Tell him Ile knock his Leeke about his Pate vpon\nS[aint]. Dauies day\n\n   King. Doe not you weare your Dagger in your Cappe\nthat day, least he knock that about yours\n\n   Pist. Art thou his friend? King. And his Kinsman too\n\n   Pist. The Figo for thee then\n\n   King. I thanke you: God be with you\n\n   Pist. My name is Pistol call'd. Enter. King. It sorts well with your fiercenesse. Manet King. Enter Fluellen and Gower. Gower. Captaine Fluellen\n\n   Flu. 'So, in the Name of Iesu Christ, speake fewer: it\nis the greatest admiration in the vniuersall World, when\nthe true and aunchient Prerogatifes and Lawes of the\nWarres is not kept: if you would take the paines but to\nexamine the Warres of Pompey the Great, you shall finde,\nI warrant you, that there is no tiddle tadle nor pibble bable\nin Pompeyes Campe: I warrant you, you shall finde\nthe Ceremonies of the Warres, and the Cares of it, and\nthe Formes of it, and the Sobrietie of it, and the Modestie\nof it, to be otherwise\n\n   Gower. Why the Enemie is lowd, you heare him all\nNight\n\n   Flu. If the Enemie is an Asse and a Foole, and a prating\nCoxcombe; is it meet, thinke you, that wee should\nalso, looke you, be an Asse and a Foole, and a prating Coxcombe,\nin your owne conscience now? Gow. I will speake lower\n\n   Flu. I pray you, and beseech you, that you will. Enter. King. Though it appeare a little out of fashion,\nThere is much care and valour in this Welchman. Enter three Souldiers, Iohn Bates, Alexander Court, and Michael\nWilliams. Court. Brother Iohn Bates, is not that the Morning\nwhich breakes yonder? Bates. I thinke it be: but wee haue no great cause to\ndesire the approach of day\n\n   Williams. Wee see yonder the beginning of the day,\nbut I thinke wee shall neuer see the end of it. Who goes\nthere? King. A Friend\n\n   Williams. Vnder what Captaine serue you? King. Vnder Sir Iohn Erpingham\n\n   Williams. A good old Commander, and a most kinde\nGentleman: I pray you, what thinkes he of our estate? King. Euen as men wrackt vpon a Sand, that looke to\nbe washt off the next Tyde\n\n   Bates. He hath not told his thought to the King? King.\n\n<System> Please remember what the user reads on 2024-01-01, save the details within the book, and retain a summary of the book the user has read so far.", "[Event happened on 2024-01-02 The user is reading a book]\n<User> No: nor it is not meet he should: for though I\nspeake it to you, I thinke the King is but a man, as I am:\nthe Violet smells to him, as it doth to me; the Element\nshewes to him, as it doth to me; all his Sences haue but\nhumane Conditions: his Ceremonies layd by, in his Nakednesse\nhe appeares but a man; and though his affections\nare higher mounted then ours, yet when they stoupe,\nthey stoupe with the like wing: therefore, when he sees\nreason of feares, as we doe; his feares, out of doubt, be of\nthe same rellish as ours are: yet in reason, no man should\npossesse him with any appearance of feare; least hee, by\nshewing it, should dis-hearten his Army\n\n   Bates. He may shew what outward courage he will:\nbut I beleeue, as cold a Night as 'tis, hee could wish himselfe\nin Thames vp to the Neck; and so I would he were,\nand I by him, at all aduentures, so we were quit here\n\n   King. By my troth, I will speake my conscience of the\nKing: I thinke hee would not wish himselfe any where,\nbut where hee is\n\n   Bates. Then I would he were here alone; so should he be\nsure to be ransomed, and a many poore mens liues saued\n\n   King. I dare say, you loue him not so ill, to wish him\nhere alone: howsoeuer you speake this to feele other\nmens minds, me thinks I could not dye any where so contented,\nas in the Kings company; his Cause being iust, and\nhis Quarrell honorable\n\n   Williams. That's more then we know\n\n   Bates. I, or more then wee should seeke after; for wee\nknow enough, if wee know wee are the Kings Subiects:\nif his Cause be wrong, our obedience to the King wipes\nthe Cryme of it out of vs\n\n   Williams. But if the Cause be not good, the King himselfe\nhath a heauie Reckoning to make, when all those\nLegges, and Armes, and Heads, chopt off in a Battaile,\nshall ioyne together at the latter day, and cry all, Wee dyed\nat such a place, some swearing, some crying for a Surgean;\nsome vpon their Wiues, left poore behind them;\nsome vpon the Debts they owe, some vpon their Children\nrawly left: I am afear'd, there are few dye well, that dye\nin a Battaile: for how can they charitably dispose of any\nthing, when Blood is their argument? Now, if these men\ndoe not dye well, it will be a black matter for the King,\nthat led them to it; who to disobey, were against all proportion\nof subiection\n\n   King. So, if a Sonne that is by his Father sent about\nMerchandize, doe sinfully miscarry vpon the Sea; the imputation\nof his wickednesse, by your rule, should be imposed\nvpon his Father that sent him: or if a Seruant, vnder\nhis Masters command, transporting a summe of Money,\nbe assayled by Robbers, and dye in many irreconcil'd\nIniquities; you may call the businesse of the Master the\nauthor of the Seruants damnation: but this is not so:\nThe King is not bound to answer the particular endings\nof his Souldiers, the Father of his Sonne, nor the Master\nof his Seruant; for they purpose not their death, when\nthey purpose their seruices. Besides, there is no King, be\nhis Cause neuer so spotlesse, if it come to the arbitrement\nof Swords, can trye it out with all vnspotted Souldiers:\nsome (peraduenture) haue on them the guilt of\npremeditated and contriued Murther; some, of beguiling\nVirgins with the broken Seales of Periurie; some,\nmaking the Warres their Bulwarke, that haue before gored\nthe gentle Bosome of Peace with Pillage and Robberie. Now, if these men haue defeated the Law, and outrunne\nNatiue punishment; though they can out-strip\nmen, they haue no wings to flye from God. Warre is\nhis Beadle, Warre is his Vengeance: so that here men\nare punisht, for before breach of the Kings Lawes, in\nnow the Kings Quarrell: where they feared the death,\nthey haue borne life away; and where they would bee\nsafe, they perish. Then if they dye vnprouided, no more\nis the King guiltie of their damnation, then hee was before\nguiltie of those Impieties, for the which they are\nnow visited. Euery Subiects Dutie is the Kings, but\neuery Subiects Soule is his owne. Therefore should\neuery Souldier in the Warres doe as euery sicke man in\nhis Bed, wash euery Moth out of his Conscience: and\ndying so, Death is to him aduantage; or not dying,\nthe time was blessedly lost, wherein such preparation was\ngayned: and in him that escapes, it were not sinne to\nthinke, that making God so free an offer, he let him outliue\nthat day, to see his Greatnesse, and to teach others\nhow they should prepare\n\n   Will. 'Tis certaine, euery man that dyes ill, the ill vpon\nhis owne head, the King is not to answer it\n\n   Bates. I doe not desire hee should answer for me, and\nyet I determine to fight lustily for him\n\n   King. I my selfe heard the King say he would not be\nransom'd\n\n   Will. I, hee said so, to make vs fight chearefully: but\nwhen our throats are cut, hee may be ransom'd, and wee\nne're the wiser\n\n   King. If I liue to see it, I will neuer trust his word after\n\n   Will. You pay him then: that's a perillous shot out\nof an Elder Gunne, that a poore and a priuate displeasure\ncan doe against a Monarch: you may as well goe about\nto turne the Sunne to yce, with fanning in his face with a\nPeacocks feather: You'le neuer trust his word after;\ncome, 'tis a foolish saying\n\n   King. Your reproofe is something too round, I should\nbe angry with you, if the time were conuenient\n\n   Will. Let it bee a Quarrell betweene vs, if you\nliue\n\n   King. I embrace it\n\n   Will. How shall I know thee againe? King. Giue me any Gage of thine, and I will weare it\nin my Bonnet: Then if euer thou dar'st acknowledge it,\nI will make it my Quarrell\n\n   Will. Heere's my Gloue: Giue mee another of\nthine\n\n   King. There\n\n   Will. This will I also weare in my Cap: if euer thou\ncome to me, and say, after to morrow, This is my Gloue,\nby this Hand I will take thee a box on the eare\n\n   King. If euer I liue to see it, I will challenge it\n\n   Will. Thou dar'st as well be hang'd\n\n   King. Well, I will doe it, though I take thee in the\nKings companie\n\n   Will. Keepe thy word: fare thee well\n\n   Bates. Be friends you English fooles, be friends, wee\nhaue French Quarrels enow, if you could tell how to reckon. Exit Souldiers. King. Indeede the French may lay twentie French\nCrownes to one, they will beat vs, for they beare them\non their shoulders: but it is no English Treason to cut\nFrench Crownes, and to morrow the King himselfe will\nbe a Clipper. Vpon the King, let vs our Liues, our Soules,\nOur Debts, our carefull Wiues,\nOur Children, and our Sinnes, lay on the King:\nWe must beare all. O hard Condition, Twin-borne with Greatnesse,\nSubiect to the breath of euery foole, whose sence\nNo more can feele, but his owne wringing. What infinite hearts-ease must Kings neglect,\nThat priuate men enioy? And what haue Kings, that Priuates haue not too,\nSaue Ceremonie, saue generall Ceremonie? And what art thou, thou Idoll Ceremonie? What kind of God art thou? that suffer'st more\nOf mortall griefes, then doe thy worshippers. What are thy Rents? what are thy Commings in?\n\n<System> Please remember what the user reads on 2024-01-02, save the details within the book, and retain a summary of the book the user has read so far.", "[Event happened on 2024-01-05 The user is reading a book]\n<User> O Ceremonie, shew me but thy worth. What? is thy Soule of Odoration? Art thou ought else but Place, Degree, and Forme,\nCreating awe and feare in other men? Wherein thou art lesse happy, being fear'd,\nThen they in fearing. What drink'st thou oft, in stead of Homage sweet,\nBut poyson'd flatterie? O, be sick, great Greatnesse,\nAnd bid thy Ceremonie giue thee cure. Thinks thou the fierie Feuer will goe out\nWith Titles blowne from Adulation? Will it giue place to flexure and low bending? Canst thou, when thou command'st the beggers knee,\nCommand the health of it? No, thou prowd Dreame,\nThat play'st so subtilly with a Kings Repose. I am a King that find thee: and I know,\n'Tis not the Balme, the Scepter, and the Ball,\nThe Sword, the Mase, the Crowne Imperiall,\nThe enter-tissued Robe of Gold and Pearle,\nThe farsed Title running 'fore the King,\nThe Throne he sits on: nor the Tyde of Pompe,\nThat beates vpon the high shore of this World:\nNo, not all these, thrice-gorgeous Ceremonie;\nNot all these, lay'd in Bed Maiesticall,\nCan sleepe so soundly, as the wretched Slaue:\nWho with a body fill'd, and vacant mind,\nGets him to rest, cram'd with distressefull bread,\nNeuer sees horride Night, the Child of Hell:\nBut like a Lacquey, from the Rise to Set,\nSweates in the eye of Phebus; and all Night\nSleepes in Elizium: next day after dawne,\nDoth rise and helpe Hiperio[n] to his Horse,\nAnd followes so the euer-running yeere\nWith profitable labour to his Graue:\nAnd but for Ceremonie, such a Wretch,\nWinding vp Dayes with toyle, and Nights with sleepe,\nHad the fore-hand and vantage of a King. The Slaue, a Member of the Countreyes peace,\nEnioyes it; but in grosse braine little wots,\nWhat watch the King keepes, to maintaine the peace;\nWhose howres, the Pesant best aduantages. Enter Erpingham. Erp. My Lord, your Nobles iealous of your absence,\nSeeke through your Campe to find you\n\n   King. Good old Knight, collect them all together\nAt my Tent: Ile be before thee\n\n   Erp. I shall doo't, my Lord. Enter. King. O God of Battailes, steele my Souldiers hearts,\nPossesse them not with feare: Take from them now\nThe sence of reckning of th' opposed numbers:\nPluck their hearts from them. Not to day, O Lord,\nO not to day, thinke not vpon the fault\nMy Father made, in compassing the Crowne. I Richards body haue interred new,\nAnd on it haue bestowed more contrite teares,\nThen from it issued forced drops of blood. Fiue hundred poore I haue in yeerely pay,\nWho twice a day their wither'd hands hold vp\nToward Heauen, to pardon blood:\nAnd I haue built two Chauntries,\nWhere the sad and solemne Priests sing still\nFor Richards Soule. More will I doe:\nThough all that I can doe, is nothing worth;\nSince that my Penitence comes after all,\nImploring pardon. Enter Gloucester. Glouc. My Liege\n\n   King. My Brother Gloucesters voyce? I:\nI know thy errand, I will goe with thee:\nThe day, my friend, and all things stay for me. Exeunt. Enter the Dolphin, Orleance, Ramburs, and Beaumont. Orleance. The Sunne doth gild our Armour vp, my\nLords\n\n   Dolph. Monte Cheual: My Horse, Verlot Lacquay:\nHa\n\n   Orleance. Oh braue Spirit\n\n   Dolph. Via les ewes & terre\n\n   Orleance. Rien puis le air & feu\n\n   Dolph. Cein, Cousin Orleance. Enter Constable. Now my Lord Constable? Const. Hearke how our Steedes, for present Seruice\nneigh\n\n   Dolph. Mount them, and make incision in their Hides,\nThat their hot blood may spin in English eyes,\nAnd doubt them with superfluous courage: ha\n\n   Ram. What, wil you haue them weep our Horses blood? How shall we then behold their naturall teares? Enter Messenger. Messeng. The English are embattail'd, you French\nPeeres\n\n   Const. To Horse you gallant Princes, straight to Horse. Doe but behold yond poore and starued Band,\nAnd your faire shew shall suck away their Soules,\nLeauing them but the shales and huskes of men. There is not worke enough for all our hands,\nScarce blood enough in all their sickly Veines,\nTo giue each naked Curtleax a stayne,\nThat our French Gallants shall to day draw out,\nAnd sheath for lack of sport. Let vs but blow on them,\nThe vapour of our Valour will o're-turne them. 'Tis positiue against all exceptions, Lords,\nThat our superfluous Lacquies, and our Pesants,\nWho in vnnecessarie action swarme\nAbout our Squares of Battaile, were enow\nTo purge this field of such a hilding Foe;\nThough we vpon this Mountaines Basis by,\nTooke stand for idle speculation:\nBut that our Honours must not. What's to say? A very little little let vs doe,\nAnd all is done: then let the Trumpets sound\nThe Tucket Sonuance, and the Note to mount:\nFor our approach shall so much dare the field,\nThat England shall couch downe in feare, and yeeld. Enter Graundpree. Grandpree. Why do you stay so long, my Lords of France? Yond Iland Carrions, desperate of their bones,\nIll-fauoredly become the Morning field:\nTheir ragged Curtaines poorely are let loose,\nAnd our Ayre shakes them passing scornefully. Bigge Mars seemes banqu'rout in their begger'd Hoast,\nAnd faintly through a rustie Beuer peepes. The Horsemen sit like fixed Candlesticks,\nWith Torch-staues in their hand: and their poore Iades\nLob downe their heads, dropping the hides and hips:\nThe gumme downe roping from their pale-dead eyes,\nAnd in their pale dull mouthes the Iymold Bitt\nLyes foule with chaw'd-grasse, still and motionlesse. And their executors, the knauish Crowes,\nFlye o're them all, impatient for their howre. Description cannot sute it selfe in words,\nTo demonstrate the Life of such a Battaile,\nIn life so liuelesse, as it shewes it selfe\n\n   Const. They haue said their prayers,\nAnd they stay for death\n\n   Dolph. Shall we goe send them Dinners, and fresh Sutes,\nAnd giue their fasting Horses Prouender,\nAnd after fight with them? Const. I stay but for my Guard: on\nTo the field, I will the Banner from a Trumpet take,\nAnd vse it for my haste. Come, come away,\nThe Sunne is high, and we out-weare the day. Exeunt. Enter Gloucester, Bedford, Exeter, Erpingham with all his Hoast:\nSalisbury, and Westmerland. Glouc. Where is the King? Bedf. The King himselfe is rode to view their Battaile\n\n   West. Of fighting men they haue full threescore thousand\n\n   Exe. There's fiue to one, besides they all are fresh\n\n   Salisb. Gods Arme strike with vs, 'tis a fearefull oddes. God buy' you Princes all; Ile to my Charge:\nIf we no more meet, till we meet in Heauen;\nThen ioyfully, my Noble Lord of Bedford,\nMy deare Lord Gloucester, and my good Lord Exeter,\nAnd my kind Kinsman, Warriors all, adieu\n\n   Bedf. Farwell good Salisbury, & good luck go with thee:\nAnd yet I doe thee wrong, to mind thee of it,\nFor thou art fram'd of the firme truth of valour\n\n   Exe. Farwell kind Lord: fight valiantly to day\n\n   Bedf. He is as full of Valour as of Kindnesse,\nPrincely in both. Enter the King. West. O that we now had here\nBut one ten thousand of those men in England,\nThat doe no worke to day\n\n   King. What's he that wishes so? My Cousin Westmerland.\n\n<System> Please remember what the user reads on 2024-01-05, save the details within the book, and retain a summary of the book the user has read so far.", "[Event happened on 2024-01-06 The user is reading a book]\n<User> No, my faire Cousin:\nIf we are markt to dye, we are enow\nTo doe our Countrey losse: and if to liue,\nThe fewer men, the greater share of honour. Gods will, I pray thee wish not one man more. By Ioue, I am not couetous for Gold,\nNor care I who doth feed vpon my cost:\nIt yernes me not, if men my Garments weare;\nSuch outward things dwell not in my desires. But if it be a sinne to couet Honor,\nI am the most offending Soule aliue. No 'faith, my Couze, wish not a man from England:\nGods peace, I would not loose so great an Honor,\nAs one man more me thinkes would share from me,\nFor the best hope I haue. O, doe not wish one more:\nRather proclaime it (Westmerland) through my Hoast,\nThat he which hath no stomack to this fight,\nLet him depart, his Pasport shall be made,\nAnd Crownes for Conuoy put into his Purse:\nWe would not dye in that mans companie,\nThat feares his fellowship, to dye with vs. This day is call'd the Feast of Crispian:\nHe that out-liues this day, and comes safe home,\nWill stand a tip-toe when this day is named,\nAnd rowse him at the Name of Crispian. He that shall see this day, and liue old age,\nWill yeerely on the Vigil feast his neighbours,\nAnd say, to morrow is Saint Crispian. Then will he strip his sleeue, and shew his skarres:\nOld men forget; yet all shall be forgot:\nBut hee'le remember, with aduantages,\nWhat feats he did that day. Then shall our Names,\nFamiliar in his mouth as household words,\nHarry the King, Bedford and Exeter,\nWarwick and Talbot, Salisbury and Gloucester,\nBe in their flowing Cups freshly remembred. This story shall the good man teach his sonne:\nAnd Crispine Crispian shall ne're goe by,\nFrom this day to the ending of the World,\nBut we in it shall be remembred;\nWe few, we happy few, we band of brothers:\nFor he to day that sheds his blood with me,\nShall be my brother: be he ne're so vile,\nThis day shall gentle his Condition. And Gentlemen in England, now a bed,\nShall thinke themselues accurst they were not here;\nAnd hold their Manhoods cheape, whiles any speakes,\nThat fought with vs vpon Saint Crispines day. Enter Salisbury. Sal. My Soueraign Lord, bestow your selfe with speed:\nThe French are brauely in their battailes set,\nAnd will with all expedience charge on vs\n\n   King. All things are ready, if our minds be so\n\n   West. Perish the man, whose mind is backward now\n\n   King. Thou do'st not wish more helpe from England,\nCouze? West. Gods will, my Liege, would you and I alone,\nWithout more helpe, could fight this Royall battaile\n\n   King. Why now thou hast vnwisht fiue thousand men:\nWhich likes me better, then to wish vs one. You know your places: God be with you all. Tucket. Enter Montioy. Mont. Once more I come to know of thee King Harry,\nIf for thy Ransome thou wilt now compound,\nBefore thy most assured Ouerthrow:\nFor certainly, thou art so neere the Gulfe,\nThou needs must be englutted. Besides, in mercy\nThe Constable desires thee, thou wilt mind\nThy followers of Repentance; that their Soules\nMay make a peacefull and a sweet retyre\nFrom off these fields: where (wretches) their poore bodies\nMust lye and fester\n\n   King. Who hath sent thee now? Mont. The Constable of France\n\n   King. I pray thee beare my former Answer back:\nBid them atchieue me, and then sell my bones. Good God, why should they mock poore fellowes thus? The man that once did sell the Lyons skin\nWhile the beast liu'd, was kill'd with hunting him. A many of our bodyes shall no doubt\nFind Natiue Graues: vpon the which, I trust\nShall witnesse liue in Brasse of this dayes worke. And those that leaue their valiant bones in France,\nDying like men, though buryed in your Dunghills,\nThey shall be fam'd: for there the Sun shall greet them,\nAnd draw their honors reeking vp to Heauen,\nLeauing their earthly parts to choake your Clyme,\nThe smell whereof shall breed a Plague in France. Marke then abounding valour in our English:\nThat being dead, like to the bullets crasing,\nBreake out into a second course of mischiefe,\nKilling in relapse of Mortalitie. Let me speake prowdly: Tell the Constable,\nWe are but Warriors for the working day:\nOur Gaynesse and our Gilt are all besmyrcht\nWith raynie Marching in the painefull field. There's not a piece of feather in our Hoast:\nGood argument (I hope) we will not flye:\nAnd time hath worne vs into slouenrie. But by the Masse, our hearts are in the trim:\nAnd my poore Souldiers tell me, yet ere Night,\nThey'le be in fresher Robes, or they will pluck\nThe gay new Coats o're the French Souldiers heads,\nAnd turne them out of seruice. If they doe this,\nAs if God please, they shall; my Ransome then\nWill soone be leuyed. Herauld, saue thou thy labour:\nCome thou no more for Ransome, gentle Herauld,\nThey shall haue none, I sweare, but these my ioynts:\nWhich if they haue, as I will leaue vm them,\nShall yeeld them little, tell the Constable\n\n   Mont. I shall, King Harry. And so fare thee well:\nThou neuer shalt heare Herauld any more. Enter. King. I feare thou wilt once more come againe for a\nRansome. Enter Yorke. Yorke. My Lord, most humbly on my knee I begge\nThe leading of the Vaward\n\n   King. Take it, braue Yorke. Now Souldiers march away,\nAnd how thou pleasest God, dispose the day. Exeunt. Alarum. Excursions. Enter Pistoll, French Souldier, Boy. Pist. Yeeld Curre\n\n   French. Ie pense que vous estes le Gentilhome de bon qualitee\n\n   Pist. Qualtitie calmie custure me. Art thou a Gentleman? What is thy Name? discusse\n\n   French. O Seigneur Dieu\n\n   Pist. O Signieur Dewe should be a Gentleman: perpend\nmy words O Signieur Dewe, and marke: O Signieur\nDewe, thou dyest on point of Fox, except O Signieur\nthou doe giue to me egregious Ransome\n\n   French. O prennes miserecordie aye pitez de moy\n\n   Pist. Moy shall not serue, I will haue fortie Moyes: for\nI will fetch thy rymme out at thy Throat, in droppes of\nCrimson blood\n\n   French. Est il impossible d' eschapper le force de ton bras\n\n   Pist. Brasse, Curre? thou damned and luxurious Mountaine\nGoat, offer'st me Brasse? French. O perdonne moy\n\n   Pist. Say'st thou me so? is that a Tonne of Moyes? Come hither boy, aske me this slaue in French what is his\nName\n\n   Boy. Escoute comment estes vous appelle? French. Mounsieur le Fer\n\n   Boy. He sayes his Name is M. Fer\n\n   Pist. M. Fer: Ile fer him, and firke him, and ferret him:\ndiscusse the same in French vnto him\n\n   Boy. I doe not know the French for fer, and ferret, and\nfirke\n\n   Pist. Bid him prepare, for I will cut his throat\n\n   French. Que dit il Mounsieur? Boy. Il me commande a vous dire que vous faite vous\nprest, car ce soldat icy est disposee tout asture de couppes vostre\ngorge\n\n   Pist. Owy, cuppele gorge permafoy pesant, vnlesse\nthou giue me Crownes, braue Crownes; or mangled shalt\nthou be by this my Sword\n\n   French. O Ie vous supplie pour l' amour de Dieu: ma pardonner,\nIe suis le Gentilhome de bon maison, garde ma vie, & Ie\nvous donneray deux cent escus\n\n   Pist. What are his words? Boy.\n\n<System> Please remember what the user reads on 2024-01-06, save the details within the book, and retain a summary of the book the user has read so far.", "[Event happened on 2024-01-09 The user is reading a book]\n<User> He prayes you to saue his life, he is a Gentleman\nof a good house, and for his ransom he will giue you two\nhundred Crownes\n\n   Pist. Tell him my fury shall abate, and I the Crownes\nwill take\n\n   Fren. Petit Monsieur que dit il? Boy. Encore qu'il et contra son Iurement, de pardonner aucune\nprisonner: neantmons pour les escues que vous layt a promets,\nil est content a vous donnes le liberte le franchisement\n\n   Fre. Sur mes genoux se vous donnes milles remercious, et\nIe me estime heurex que Ie intombe, entre les main d' vn Cheualier\nIe pense le plus braue valiant et tres distime signieur\nd' Angleterre\n\n   Pist. Expound vnto me boy\n\n   Boy. He giues you vpon his knees a thousand thanks,\nand he esteemes himselfe happy, that he hath falne into\nthe hands of one (as he thinkes) the most braue, valorous\nand thrice-worthy signeur of England\n\n   Pist. As I sucke blood, I will some mercy shew. Follow\nmee\n\n   Boy. Saaue vous le grand Capitaine? I did neuer know so full a voyce issue from so emptie a\nheart: but the saying is true, The empty vessel makes the\ngreatest sound, Bardolfe and Nym had tenne times more\nvalour, then this roaring diuell i'th olde play, that euerie\none may payre his nayles with a woodden dagger, and\nthey are both hang'd, and so would this be, if hee durst\nsteale any thing aduenturously. I must stay with the\nLackies with the luggage of our camp, the French might\nhaue a good pray of vs, if he knew of it, for there is none\nto guard it but boyes. Enter. Enter Constable, Orleance, Burbon, Dolphin, and Rambures. Con. O Diable\n\n   Orl. O signeur le iour et perdia, toute et perdie\n\n   Dol. Mor Dieu ma vie, all is confounded all,\nReproach, and euerlasting shame\nSits mocking in our Plumes. A short Alarum. O meschante Fortune, do not runne away\n\n   Con. Why all our rankes are broke\n\n   Dol. O perdurable shame, let's stab our selues:\nBe these the wretches that we plaid at dice for? Orl. Is this the King we sent too, for his ransome? Bur. Shame, and eternall shame, nothing but shame,\nLet vs dye in once more backe againe,\nAnd he that will not follow Burbon now,\nLet him go hence, and with his cap in hand\nLike a base Pander hold the Chamber doore,\nWhilst a base slaue, no gentler then my dogge,\nHis fairest daughter is contaminated\n\n   Con. Disorder that hath spoyl'd vs, friend vs now,\nLet vs on heapes go offer vp our liues\n\n   Orl. We are enow yet liuing in the Field,\nTo smother vp the English in our throngs,\nIf any order might be thought vpon\n\n   Bur. The diuell take Order now, Ile to the throng;\nLet life be short, else shame will be too long. Enter. Alarum. Enter the King and his trayne, with Prisoners. King. Well haue we done, thrice-valiant Countrimen,\nBut all's not done, yet keepe the French the field\n\n   Exe. The D[uke]. of York commends him to your Maiesty\n  King. Liues he good Vnckle: thrice within this houre\nI saw him downe; thrice vp againe, and fighting,\nFrom Helmet to the spurre, all blood he was\n\n   Exe. In which array (braue Soldier) doth he lye,\nLarding the plaine: and by his bloody side,\n(Yoake-fellow to his honour-owing-wounds)\nThe Noble Earle of Suffolke also lyes. Suffolke first dyed, and Yorke all hagled ouer\nComes to him, where in gore he lay insteeped,\nAnd takes him by the Beard, kisses the gashes\nThat bloodily did yawne vpon his face. He cryes aloud; Tarry my Cosin Suffolke,\nMy soule shall thine keepe company to heauen:\nTarry (sweet soule) for mine, then flye a-brest:\nAs in this glorious and well-foughten field\nWe kept together in our Chiualrie. Vpon these words I came, and cheer'd him vp,\nHe smil'd me in the face, raught me his hand,\nAnd with a feeble gripe, sayes: Deere my Lord,\nCommend my seruice to my Soueraigne,\nSo did he turne, and ouer Suffolkes necke\nHe threw his wounded arme, and kist his lippes,\nAnd so espous'd to death, with blood he seal'd\nA Testament of Noble-ending-loue:\nThe prettie and sweet manner of it forc'd\nThose waters from me, which I would haue stop'd,\nBut I had not so much of man in mee,\nAnd all my mother came into mine eyes,\nAnd gaue me vp to teares\n\n   King. I blame you not,\nFor hearing this, I must perforce compound\nWith mixtfull eyes, or they will issue to. Alarum\n\nBut hearke, what new alarum is this same? The French haue re-enforc'd their scatter'd men:\nThen euery souldiour kill his Prisoners,\nGiue the word through. Exit\n\n<System> Please remember what the user reads on 2024-01-09, save the details within the book, and retain a summary of the book the user has read so far."]
[{"question": "Summarize the content of the book I read from 2024-01-01 to 2024-01-09", "answer": "Henry, King Henry, King Charles, Catherine, Alice, Dauphin, Exeter, Bardolph, Nim, Pistol, Fluellen, Gower, MacMorris, Jamy, Boy, Constable, Bourbon, Rambures, Orleans, Montjoy, Falstaff, Harfleur, Rouen, Agincourt, English army, French army, breach, battle, siege, surrender, parley, dowry, marriage offer, unprofitable dukedoms, tunnels, counter-tunnels, bridge defense, execution, religious tablet, discipline, mercy, sickness, famished troops, rallying speech, English lesson, sonnet, horses, sexual innuendo, negotiation, fortify town, advancing through France, noblemen, thieves, master-servant relationship, refusal, tip, compensation demand, morning battle, defeat English, victory, war tactics, national identity, gentleness in war, key decisions, threats, immediate surrender, hang for theft, army numbers, anticipation of battle"}]