’Tis certain he hath passed the river Somme

King of France
’Tis certain he hath passed the river Somme.
Constable
An if he be not fought withal, my lord,
Let us not live in France. Let us quit all,
And give our vineyards to a barbarous people.
Dauphin
Ô Dieu vivant, shall a few sprays of us,
The emptying of our fathers’ luxury,
Our scions, put in wild and savage stock,
Spurt up so suddenly into the clouds
And overlook their grafters?

Up, princes, and, with spirit of honor edged
More sharper than your swords, hie to the field:

Brittany
Normans, but bastard Normans, Norman bastards!
Mort de ma vie, if they march along
Unfought withal, but I will sell my dukedom
To buy a slobb’ry and a dirty farm
In that nook-shotten isle of Albion.
Constable
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-reined jades, their barley broth,
Decoct their cold blood to such valiant heat?
And shall our quick blood, spirited with wine,
Seem frosty? O, for honor 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 native lords.
Dauphin
By faith and honor,
Our madams mock at us and plainly say
Our mettle is bred out, and they will give
Their bodies to the lust of English youth
To new-store France with bastard warriors.
Brittany
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.
Up, princes, and, with spirit of honor edged
More sharper than your swords, hie to the field:
Charles Delabreth, High Constable of France;
You Dukes of Orléans, Bourbon, and of Berri,
Alençon, Brabant, Bar, and Burgundy;
Jacques Chatillon, Rambures, Vaudemont,
Beaumont, Grandpré, Roussi, and Faulconbridge,
Foix, Lestrale, Bouciquault, and Charolois;
High dukes, great princes, barons, lords, and knights,
For your great seats now quit you of great shames.
Bar Harry England, that sweeps through our land
With pennons painted in the blood of Harfleur.
Rush on his host, as doth the melted snow
Upon the valleys, whose low vassal seat
The Alps doth spit and void his rheum upon.
Go down upon him—you have power enough—
And in a captive chariot into Rouen
Bring him our prisoner.
Constable
This becomes the great!
Sorry am I his numbers are so few,
His soldiers sick and famished in their march,
For, I am sure, when he shall see our army,
He’ll drop his heart into the sink of fear
And for achievement offer us his ransom.