Act 3 - Scene 5
Enter the KING OF FRANCE, the DAUPHIN, the DUKE of BOURBON, the Constable of France, and
KING OF FRANCE
'Tis certain he hath pass'd the river Somme.
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
O Dieu vivant! shall a few sprays of us,
The emptying of our fathers' luxury,
Our scions, put in wild and
Spirt up so suddenly into the clouds,
And overlook their grafters?
Normans, but bastard Normans, Norman bastards!
Mort de ma vie! if they march along
but I will sell my dukedom,
To buy a slobbery and a dirty farm
In that nook-shotten isle of Albion.
Dieu de batailles! where have they this mettle?
Is not their climate foggy, raw and dull,
On whom, as
in despite, 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
Seem frosty? O, for honour of our land,
Let us not hang like roping icicles
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
By faith and honour,
Our madams mock at us, and plainly say
Our mettle is bred out and they will give
bodies to the lust of English youth
To new-store France with bastard warriors.
They bid us to the English dancing-schools,
And teach lavoltas high and swift corantos;
Saying our grace
is only in our heels,
And that we are most lofty runaways.
KING OF FRANCE
Where is Montjoy the herald? speed him hence:
Let him greet England with our sharp defiance.
and, with spirit of honour edged
More sharper than your swords, hie to the field:
Charles Delabreth, high
constable of France;
You Dukes of Orleans, Bourbon, and of Berri,
Alencon, Brabant, Bar, and Burgundy;
Chatillon, Rambures, Vaudemont,
Beaumont, Grandpre, Roussi, and Fauconberg,
Foix, Lestrale, Bouciqualt,
High dukes, great princes, barons, lords and knights,
For your great seats now quit you of
Bar Harry England, that sweeps through our land
With pennons painted in the blood of
Rush on his host, as doth the melted snow
Upon the valleys, whose low vassal seat
doth spit and void his rheum upon:
Go down upon him, you have power enough,
And in a captive chariot
Bring him our prisoner.