France, and Others.
Fr. K.
'Tis certain, he hath pass'd the river Some.
Con.
And if 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,—
-- 48 --
The emptying of our fathers' luxury,—
Our syens, put in wild and savage stock,
Spirt up so suddenly into the clouds,
And over-grow their grafters?
Bou.
Normans, but bastard Normans, Norman bastards!
Mort de ma vie! if thus they march along
Unfought withal, but I will sell my dukedom,
To buy a slobbery and a dirty farm
In that nook-shotten 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 despight 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 isicles
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,
Our mettle is bred out; and they will give
Their bodies to the lust of English youth,
To new-store France with bastard warriors.
Bou.
They bid us—to the English dancing-schools,
And teach lavolta's high, and swift corranto's; note
Saying, our grace is only in our heels,
And that we are most lofty run-aways.
Fr. K.
Where is Montjoy, the herald? speed him hence;
Let him greet England with our sharp defiance.—
-- 49 --
Up, princes; and, with spirit of honour edg'd,
More sharper than your swords, hie to the field:
Charles De-la-bret, high constable of France;
You dukes of Orleans, Bourbon, and of Berry,
Alenson, Brabant, Bar, and Burgundy;
Jaques Chatillion, Rambures, Vaudemont,
Beaumont, Grandprée, Roussi, and Fauconberg,
Foix, Lestrale, Bouciqualt, and Charolois;
High dukes,14Q0748 great princes, barons, lords, and knights note,
For your great seats, 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 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;
For, I am sure, when he shall see our army,
He'll drop his heart into the sink of fear,
And, for atchievement, offer us his ransom.
Fr. K.
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 Roan.
Dau.
Not so, I do beseech your majesty.
Fr. K.
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.
-- 50 --
Edward Capell [1767], Mr William Shakespeare his comedies, histories, and tragedies, set out by himself in quarto, or by the Players his Fellows in folio, and now faithfully republish'd from those Editions in ten Volumes octavo; with an introduction: Whereunto will be added, in some other Volumes, notes, critical and explanatory, and a Body of Various Readings entire (Printed by Dryden Leach, for J. and R. Tonson [etc.], London) [word count] [S10601].
