Orl.
The sun doth gild our armour up, my lords.

Con.
To horse, you gallant princes, straight to horse,
Do but behold yon poor, and starved band,
And your fair shew shall suck away their souls,
Leaving them but the shells and husks of men.
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 crouch down in fear, and yield. Enter Burgundy.

Burg.
Why do you stay so long, my lords of France?† ^note
Yon island carrions, desp'rate 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.
Their horsemen sit, like fixed candlesticks,
With torch-staves in their hand; and their poor jades
Lob down their heads, drooping the hide and hips:
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 liveless, as it shews itself.

Con.
They've said their prayers, and they stay for death.

Daup.
Shall we go send them dinners, and fresh suits,
And give their fasting horses provender,* ^note
And, after, fight with them?

Con.
I stay but for my guard. On, to the field;
Come, come away?
The sun is high, and we out-wear the day. [Exeunt.

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