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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, | 5 |
| 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, | 10 |
| 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 | 15 |
| 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, | 20 |
| 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 | 25 |
| 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 | 30 |
| 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; | 35 |
| 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 | 40 |
| 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, | 45 |
| 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 | 50 |
| 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. | 55 |
| 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, | 60 |
| 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 | 65 |
| 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, | 70 |
| And quickly bring us word of England’s fall. [Exeunt. | |
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