Orleans

The sun doth gild our armour; up, my lords!

Lewis

Montez à cheval! My horse! varlet! laquais! ha!

Orleans

O brave spirit!

Lewis

Via! les eaux et terre.

Orleans

Rien puis? l'air et feu.

Lewis

Ciel, cousin Orleans. Enter CONSTABLE. Now, my lord constable!

Constable

Hark, how our steeds for present service neigh!

Lewis

Mount them, and make incision in their hides,

That their hot blood may spin in English eyes,

And dout them with superfluous courage, ha!

Rambures

What, will you have them weep our horses' blood?

How shall we, then, behold their natural tears? Enter Messenger.

Messenger(s)

The English are embattled, you French peers.

Constable

To horse, you gallant princes! straight to horse!

Do but behold yon poor and starved band,

And your fair show shall suck away their souls,

Leaving them but the shales and husks of men.

There is not work enough for all our hands;

Scarce blood enough in all their sickly veins

To give each naked curtle-axe a stain,

That our French gallants shall to-day draw out,

And sheathe for lack of sport: let us but blow on them,

The vapour of our valour will o'erturn them.

'Tis positive 'gainst all exceptions, lords,

That our superfluous lackeys and our peasants,

Who in unnecessary action swarm

About our squares of battle, were enow

To purge this field of such a hilding foe,

Though we upon this mountain's basis by

Took stand for idle speculation:

But that our honours must not. What's to say?

A very little little let us do,

And all is done. Then let the trumpets sound

The tucket sonance and the note to mount;

For our approach shall so much dare the field

That England shall couch down in fear and yield. Enter Grandpré.

Grandpré

Why do you stay so long, my lords of France?

Yon island carrions, desperate of their bones,

ill-favouredly become the morning field:

Their ragged curtains poorly are let loose,

And our air shakes them passing scornfully:

Big Mars seems bankrupt in their beggared host

And faintly through a rusty beaver peeps:

The horsemen sit like fixed candlesticks,

With torch-staves in their hand; and their poor jades

Lob down their heads, dropping the hides and hips,

The gum down-roping from their pale-dead eyes,

And in their pale dull mouths the gimmaled bit

Lies foul with chawed-grass, still and motionless;

And their executors, the knavish crows,

Fly o'er them, all impatient for their hour.

Description cannot suit itself in words

To demonstrate the life of such a battle

In life so lifeless as it shows itself.

Constable

They have said their prayers, and they stay for death.

Lewis

Shall we go send them dinners and fresh suits

And give their fasting horses provender,

And after fight with them?

Constable

I stay but for my guidon: to the field!

I will the banner from a trumpet take,

And use it for my haste. Come, come, away!

The sun is high, and we outwear the day. Exeunt.