Alarum. Enter Prince Edward and Artois
How fares your grace? Are you not shot, my lord?
No, dear Artois, but choked with dust and smoke,
And stepped aside for breath and fresher air.
Breathe, then, and to it again. The amazed French
Are quite distract with gazing on the crows,
And, were our quivers full of shafts again,
Your grace should see a glorious day of this.
O, for more arrows, Lord! That's our want.
Courage, Artois! A fig for feathered shafts
When feathered fowls do bandy on our side!
What need we fight and sweat and keep a coil
When railing crows outscold our adversaries?
Up, up, Artois! The ground itself is armed
With fire-containing flint. Command our bows
To hurl away their pretty-coloured yew,
And to it with stones! Away, Artois, away!
My soul doth prophesy we win the day.
Alarum. Enter King John
Our multitudes are in themselves confounded,
Dismayed, and distraught; swift-starting fear
Hath buzzed a cold dismay through all our army,
And every petty disadvantage prompts
The fear-possessed abject soul to fly.
Myself, whose spirit is steel to their dull lead,
What with recalling of the prophecy,
And that our native stones from English arms
Rebel against us, find myself attainted
With strong surprise of weak and yielding fear.
Fly, father, fly! The French do kill the French:
Some that would stand let drive at some that fly;
Our drums strike nothing but discouragement;
Our trumpets sound dishonour and retire;
The spirit of fear, that feareth naught but death,
Cowardly works confusion on itself.
Pluck out your eyes and see not this day's shame!
An arm hath beat an army; one poor David
Hath with a stone foiled twenty stout Goliaths;
Some twenty naked starvelings with small flints
Hath driven back a puissant host of men
Arrayed and fenced in all accomplements.
Mort Dieu! They quoit at us and kill us up.
No less than forty thousand wicked elders
Have forty lean slaves this day stoned to death.
O that I were some other countryman!
This day hath set derision on the French,
And all the world will blurt and scorn at us.
What, is there no hope left?
No hope but death, to bury up our shame.
Make up once more with me. The twentieth part
Of those that live are men enow to quail
The feeble handful on the adverse part.
Then charge again. If heaven be not opposed,
We cannot lose the day.
Enter Audley, wounded, and rescued by two esquires
How fares my lord?
Even as a man may do
That dines at such a bloody feast as this.
I hope, my lord, that is no mortal scar.
No matter if it be; the count is cast,
And, in the worst, ends but a mortal man.
Good friends, convey me to the princely Edward,
That in the crimson bravery of my blood
I may become him with saluting him.
I'll smile and tell him that this open scar
Doth end the harvest of his Audley's war.