Lewis.
My lord Chatillion, let this be copied out,
And keep it safe for our remembrance:
Return the precedent to these lords again,
That, having our fair order written down,
Both they and we, perusing o'er these notes,
May know wherefore we took the Sacrament;
And keep our faiths firm and inviolable.

Sal.
Upon our sides it never shall be broken.
Yet believe me, Prince, Oh, it grieves my soul,
That I must draw this metal from my side,
To be a widow-maker:* ^note

But such is the infection of the time,
That, for the health and physick of our right,
We cannot deal but with the very hand
Of stern injustice—I must withdraw, and weep
Upon the spot of this enforced cause.

Lewis.
A noble temper dost thou shew in this;
And great affection, wrestling in thy bosom,
Doth make an earthquake of Nobility.
Lift up thy brow, renowned Salisbury,
And with a great heart heave away this storm.
Come, come; for thou shalt thrust thy hand as deep
Into the purse of rich prosperity,
As Lewis himself; so, Nobles, shall you all,
That knit your sinews to the strength of mine. Enter Pandulph.
Look, where the holy Legate comes apace,
To give us warrant from the hand of Heav'n,
And on our actions set the name of right,
With holy breath.

Pand.
Hail, noble Prince of France!
The next is this: King John hath reconcil'd
Himself to Rome; his spirit is come in,
That so stood out against the holy Church,
The great Metropolis and See of Rome.
Therefore thy threat'ning colours now wind up,
And tame the savage spirit of wild war;
That, like a lion foster'd up at hand,
It may lie gently at the foot of peace,
And be no further harmful than in shew.

Lewis.
Your Grace shall pardon me, I will not back
I am too high-born to be propertied,
Your breath first kindled the dead coal of war,
And brought in matter that should feed this fire.
And now 'tis far too huge to be blown out,
With that same weak wind which enkindled it.
You taught me how to know the face of right,
Acquainted me with int'rest to this land:
Yea, thrust this enterprize into my heart:
And come ye now, to tell me John hath made
His peace with Rome? what is that peace to me?
I, by the honour of my marriage-bed,

After young Arthur, claim this land for mine:
And now it is half conquer'd, must I back,
Because that John hath made his peace with Rome?
Am I Rome's slave?
No, on my soul, it never shall be said.

Pand.
You look but on the outside of this work.

Lewis.
I care not, I will not return. [Trumpet sounds. A Call.
What lusty trumpet thus doth summon us? Enter Faulconbridge.

Faulc.
According to the fair play of the world,
Let me have audience: I am sent to speak,
My holy lord of Milan, from the King:
I come to learn how you have dealt for him:
And as you answer, I do know the scope
And warrant limited unto my tongue.

Pand.
The Dauphin is too wilful opposite,
And will not temporize with my entreaties:
He flatly says, he'll not lay down his arms.

Faulc.
By all the blood that ever fury breath'd,
The youth says well. Now hear our English King;
For thus his Royalty doth speak in me* ^note:
He is prepar'd; and reason too, he should.
This apish and unmannerly approach,
This harness'd mask, and unadvised revel,
This unhair'd sawciness and boyish troops,
The King doth smile at; and is well prepar'd
To whip this dwarfish war, these pigmy arms,
From out the circle of his territories.
That hand which had the strength, ev'n at your door,
To cudgel you, and make you take the hatch;
Shall that victorious hand be feebled here,
That in your chambers gave you chastisement?
No; know the gallant Monarch is in arms;
And like an Eagle o'er his aiery tow'rs,
To souse annoyance that comes near his nest.
And you degen'rate, you ingrate revolts,

You bloody Nero's, ripping up the womb
Of your dear mother England, blush for shame.

Lewis.
We grant, thou canst out-scold us; fare thee well;
We hold our time too precious to be spent
With such a babler.

Pand.
Give me leave to speak.

Faulc.
No, I will speak.

Lewis.
We will attend to neither:
Strike up the drums, and let the tongue of war
Plead for our int'rest, and our being here.

Faulc.
Indeed, your drums, being beaten, will cry out;
And so shall you, being beaten; do but start
And echo with the clamour of thy drum,
And ev'n at hand a drum is ready brac'd,
That shall reverb'rate all as loud as thine.
Sound but another, and another shall
As loud as thine rattle the welkin's ear,
And mock the deep-mouth'd thunder. For at hand
(Not trusting to this halting Legate here,
Whom he hath us'd rather for sport than need)
Is warlike John; and in his forehead sits
A bare-ribb'd Death; whose office is, this day,
To feast upon whole thousands of the French.

Lewis.
Strike up our drums, to find this danger out.

Faulc.
And thou shalt find it, Dauphin, do not doubt. [Exeunt.

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