Scene
VI
The same. A part of the field of battle.
Alarums, as of a battle joined, skirmishings. Enter Prince Edward and Artois.
Artois
How fares your grace? are you not shot, my lord?
Prince Edward
No, dear Artois; but chok’d with dust and smoke
And stepp’d aside for breath and fresher air.
Artois
Breath, then, and to’t 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.
Prince Edward
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 out-scold our adversaries?
Up, up, Artois! the ground itself is arm’d
With fire containing flint; command our bows
To hurl away their pretty-color’d yew,
And to’t with stones: away, Artois, away;
My soul doth prophesy we win the day. Exeunt.
Alarums, and Parties skirmishing. Enter King John.
King John
Our multitudes are in themselves confounded,
Dismayed, and distraught; swift-starting fear
Hath buzz’d 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.
Enter Charles.
Charles
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 nought but death,
Cowardly works confusion on itself.
Enter Philip.
Philip
Pluck out your eyes and see not this day’s shame!
An arm hath beat an army; one poor David
Hath with a stone foil’d twenty stout Goliahs:
Some twenty naked starvelings with small flints
Hath driven back a puissant host of men,
Array’d and fenc’d in all accomplements.
King John
Mordieu, they quoit at us and kill us up;
No less than forty thousand wicked elders
Have forty lean slaves this day ston’d to death.
Charles
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.
King John
What, is there no hope left?
Philip
No hope, but death, to bury up our shame.
King John
Make up once more with me; the twentieth part
Of those that live are men enough to quail
The feeble handful on the adverse part.
Charles
Then charge again: if Heaven be not oppos’d,
We cannot lose the day.
King John
On, on; away. Exeunt.
Alarums, etc. Enter Audley, wounded, and two Esquires, his rescuers.
First Esquire
How fares my lord?
Audley
Even as a man may do,
That dines at such a bloody feast as this.
Second Esquire
I hope, my lord, that is no mortal scar.
Audley
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. Exeunt.