F. Her.
You men of Angiers, open wide your gates,
And let young Arthur Duke of Bretagne in;
Who by the hand of France this day hath made
Much work for tears in many an English mother,
Whose sons lye scatter'd on the bleeding ground:
And many a widow's husband groveling lyes,
Coldly embracing the discolour'd earth;

While Victory with little loss doth play
Upon the dancing banners of the French,
Who are at hand triumphantly display'd
To enter conquerors; and to proclaim
Arthur of Bretagne, England's King, and yours. Enter English Herald with Trumpet.

E. Her.
Rejoice, you men of Angiers; ring your bells;
King John, your King and England's, doth approach,
Commander of this hot malicious day.
Their armours, that march'd hence so silver-bright,
Hither return all gilt in Frenchmens blood.
There stuck no plume in any English crest,
That is removed by a staff of France.
Our colours do return in those same hands,
That did display them when we first march'd forth;
And like a jolly troop of huntsmen come
Our lusty English, all with purpled hands,
Stain'd in the dying slaughter of their foes.
Open your gates, and give the victors way.

Cit.
Heralds, from off our tow'rs we might behold,
From first to last, the onset and retire
Of both your armies, whose equality
By our best eyes cannot be censured;
Blood hath bought blood, and blows have answer'd blows;
Strength match'd with strength, and power confronted power.
Both are alike, and both alike we like;
One must prove greatest. While they weigh so even,
We hold our town for neither; yet for both.

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