Fr. King.
'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 barb'rous people.

Dau.
O Dieu vivant! shall a few sprays of us,
(The emptying of our fathers' luxury,)
Our Syens, put in wild and savage stock,
Sprout up so suddenly into the clouds,
And over-look their grafters?

Bour.
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 foggy and a dirty farm
^{4 note}In that nook-shotten Isle of Albion.

Con.
Dieu de Batailles! why, whence have they this mettle?
Is not their climate foggy, raw and dull?
On whom, as in despight, the Sun looks pale,
Killing their fruit with frowns? can sodden water,

A drench for sur-reyn'd jades, their barly-broth,
Decoct their cold blood to such valiant heat?
And shall our quick blood, spirited with wine,
Seem frosty? Oh, for honour of our land,
Let us not hang like frozen isicles
Upon our house-tops, while more frosty people
Sweat drops of gallant blood 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.

Bour.
They bid us to the English dancing-schools,
And teach Lavolta's high, and swift Curranto's;
Saying, our grace is only in our heels;
And that we are most lofty run-aways.

Fr. King.
Where is Mountjoy, the herald? speed him hence;
Let him greet England with our sharp defiance.
Up, Princes, and with spirit of honour edg'd,
Yet sharper than your swords, hie to the field:
Charles Delabreth, high constable of France;
You, dukes of Orleans, Bourbon, and of Berry,
Alanson, Brabant, Bar and Burgundy,
Jaques Chatillion, Rambures, Vaudemont,
Beaumont, Grandpree, Roussie, and Faulconbridge,
Loys, Lestraile, Bouciqualt, and Charaloys,
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
With penons painted in the blood of Harfleur:
Rush on his host, as doth the melted snow
Upon the vallies; whose low vassal seat
The Alps doth spit and void his rheum upon.
Go down upon him, (you have pow'r 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 famisht 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. King.
Therefore, Lord Constable, haste on Mountjoy;
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. 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.

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