The Same. Another Room in the Palace. |
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Enter the FRENCH KING, the DAUPHIN, DUKE OF BOURBON, the CONSTABLE OF FRANCE, and Others. |
Fr. King. 'Tis certain, he hath pass'd the river Somme. |
Con. 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. |
Dau. O Dieu vivant! shall a few sprays of us, |
The emptying of our fathers' luxury, |
Our scions, put in wild and savage stock, |
Spirt up so suddenly into the clouds, |
And overlook their grafters? |
Bour. Normans, but bastard Normans, Norman bastards! |
Mort de ma vie! if they march along |
Unfought withal, but I will sell my dukedom, |
To buy a slobbery and a dirty farm |
In that nook-shotten isle of Albion. |
Con. Dieu de battailes! where have they this mettle? |
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. |
Dau. By faith and honour, |
Our madams mock at us, and plainly say |
Our mettle is bred out; and they will give |
Their bodies to the lust of English youth |
To new-store France with bastard warriors. |
Bour. They bid us to the English dancing-schools, |
And teach lavoltas high and swift corantos; |
Saying our grace is only in our heels, |
And that we are most lofty runaways. |
Fr. King. Where is Montjoy the herald? speed him hence: |
Let him greet England with our sharp defiance. |
Up, princes! and, with spirit of honour edg'd |
More sharper than your swords, hie to the field: |
Charles Delabreth, High Constable of France; |
You Dukes of Orleans, Bourbon, and Berri, |
Alençon, Brabant, Bar, and Burgundy; |
Jaques Chatillon, Rambures, Vaudemont, |
Beaumont, Grandpré, Roussi, and Fauconberg, |
Foix, Lestrale, Bouciqualt, and Charolois; |
High dukes, great princes, barons, lords, and knights, |
For your great seats now quit you of great shames. |
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 Roan |
Bring him our prisoner. |
Con. 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. |
Fr. King. Therefore, lord constable, haste on Montjoy, |
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 Roan. |
Dau. Not so, I do beseech your majesty. |
Fr. King. Be patient, for you shall remain with us. |
Now forth, lord constable and princes all, |
And quickly bring us word of England's fall. [Exeunt. |
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