Swithin Swithian

HENRY:  This day is called the feast of Crispian ...
AIDE:  Hold, my liege, a word!
HENRY:  What?  Eh? Hold on, sirrah, can't hear a thing with the rain beating on this bloody helmet!
(Henry removes helm, bends, Aide whispereth in the royal ear)
HENRY:  The feast of Swithin?  Are you sure?
AIDE:  Most assuredly, sire. And what is more ...
(Aide whispereth further unto the King)
HENRY:  Forty DAYS?  Is that really what they do say?
AIDE:  Indeed they do, my lord.  They do say:
  St. Swithin's day if thou dost rain
  For forty days it will remain
  St. Swithin's day if thou be fair
  For forty days 'twill rain nae mair.
HENRY:  Are you Scottish, son?

AIDE:  No, sire, 'tis merely the jingle-jangle necessity of this rough clownish rhyme.

HENRY:  I hate bloody clowns! Forty days?

AIDE:  Forty days, sire.

HENRY:  Bugger.  Gentlemen in England this day abed have made a good call, methinks.  Gloucester!

GLOUCESTER:  Aye, my liege!

HENRY:  Call the French herald, and tell him the match is off, sine die.  What call they that place over there?

AIDE:  'Tis the Agincourt Wine Superstore, my lord.

HENRY:  Perfect.  (Draws sword)  Drink, anyone?