The French Camp. |
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Enter the DAUPHIN, ORLEANS, RAMBURES, and Others. |
Orl. The sun doth gild our armour: up, my lords! |
Dau. Montez à cheval! My horse! varlet! lacquais! ha! |
Orl. O brave spirit! |
Dau. Via! les eaux et la terre! |
Orl. Rien puis? l'air et le feu. |
Dau. Ciel! cousin Orleans. |
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Enter CONSTABLE. |
Now, my lord constable! |
Con. Hark how our steeds for present service neigh! |
Dau. Mount them, and make incision in their hides, |
That their hot blood may spin in English eyes, |
And dout them with superfluous courage: ha! |
Ram. What! will you have them weep our horses' blood? |
How shall we then behold their natural tears? |
|
Enter a Messenger. |
Mess. The English are embattail'd, you French peers. |
Con. To horse, you gallant princes! straight to horse! |
Do but behold yon poor and starved band, |
And your fair show shall suck away their souls, |
Leaving them but the shales and husks of men. |
There is not work enough for all our hands; |
Scarce blood enough in all their sickly veins |
To give each naked curtal-axe a stain, |
That our French gallants shall to-day draw out, |
And sheathe for lack of sport: let us but blow on them, |
The vapour of our valour will o'erturn them. |
'Tis positive 'gainst all exceptions, lords, |
That our superfluous lackeys and our peasants, |
Who in unnecessary action swarm |
About our squares of battle, were enow |
To purge this field of such a hilding foe, |
Though we upon this mountain's basis by |
Took stand for idle speculation: |
But that our honours must not. What's to say? |
A very little little let us do, |
And all is done. Then let the trumpets sound |
The tucket sonance and the note to mount: |
For our approach shall so much dare the field, |
That England shall couch down in fear and yield. |
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Enter GRANDPRÉ. |
Grand. Why do you stay so long, my lords of France? |
Yon island carrions desperate of their bones, |
Ill-favour'dly become the morning field: |
Their ragged curtains poorly are let loose, |
And our air shakes them passing scornfully: |
Big Mars seems bankrupt in their beggar'd host, |
And faintly through a rusty beaver peeps: |
The horsemen sit like fixed candlesticks, |
With torch-staves in their hand; and their poor jades |
Lob down their heads, dropping the hides and hips, |
The gum down-roping from their pale-dead eyes, |
And in their pale dull mouths the gimmal bit |
Lies foul with chew'd grass, still and motionless; |
And their executors, the knavish crows, |
Fly o'er them, all impatient for their hour. |
Description cannot suit itself in words |
To demonstrate the life of such a battle |
In life so lifeless as it shows itself. |
Con. They have said their prayers, and they stay for death. |
Dau. Shall we go send them dinners and fresh suits, |
And give their fasting horses provender, |
And after fight with them? |
Con. I stay but for my guard: on, to the field! |
I will the banner from a trumpet take, |
And use it for my haste. Come, come, away! |
The sun is high, and we outwear the day. [Exeunt. |
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