Fr. King.
'Tis certain he hath pass'd the river Somme.

Con.
And if ^note 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 ^note,
Our scions, put in wild and savage stock ^note,
Spirt ^note up so suddenly into the clouds,
And overlook ^note their grafters?

Bour. ^note
Normans, but bastard Normans, Norman bastards!
Mort de ^note ma vie! if ^note they march along
Unfought withal, but I will sell my dukedom,
To buy a slobbery ^note and a dirty farm
In that nook-shotten ^note isle of Albion.

Con.
Dieu de batailles! where ^note have they this mettle?
Is not their climate foggy, raw and dull,
On whom, as in despite ^note, 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 ^note icicles
Upon our ^note houses' thatch ^note, whiles a ^note more frosty people
Sweat drops of gallant youth ^note in our rich fields!—
Poor we may call ^note 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. ^note
They bid us to the English dancing-schools,
And teach lavoltas high and swift corantos ^note;
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 edged
More ^note sharper than your swords, hie to the field:
Charles Delabreth ^note, high constable of France;
You Dukes of Orleans, Bourbon, and of Berri,
Alençon, Brabant, Bar, and Burgundy;
Jaques Chatillon, Rambures, Vaudemont,
Beaumont, Grandpré ^note, Roussi, and Fauconberg ^note,
Foix ^note, Lestrale, Bouciqualt, and Charolois;
High dukes, great princes, barons, lords ^note and knights ^note,

For your great seats ^note 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 Rouen ^note
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 ^note achievement offer us his ransom ^note.

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 Rouen ^note.

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. ^note

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