France, hast thou yet more blood to cast away?

King John
France, hast thou yet more blood to cast away?
Say, shall the current of our right roam on,
Whose passage, vexed with thy impediment,
Shall leave his native channel and o'erswell
With course disturbed even thy confining shores,
Unless thou let his silver water keep
A peaceful progress to the ocean?
King Philip
England, thou hast not saved one drop of blood
In this hot trial more than we of France,
Rather lost more. And by this hand I swear
That sways the earth this climate overlooks,
Before we will lay down our just-borne arms,
We'll put thee down, ‘gainst whom these arms we bear,
Or add a royal number to the dead,
Gracing the scroll that tells of this war's loss
With slaughter coupled to the name of kings.
Bastard, aside
Ha, majesty! How high thy glory towers
When the rich blood of kings is set on fire!
O, now doth Death line his dead chaps with steel,
The swords of soldiers are his teeth, his fangs,
And now he feasts, mousing the flesh of men
In undetermined differences of kings.
Why stand these royal fronts amazèd thus?
Cry havoc, kings! Back to the stainèd field,
You equal potents, fiery-kindled spirits.
Then let confusion of one part confirm
The other's peace. Till then, blows, blood, and death!