The Same. Another Room in the Palace. |
| |
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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