The Complete Works of William Shakespeare Part 165

MACMORRIS. I do not know you so good a man as myself; so Chrish save me, I will cut off your head.

GOWER. Gentlemen both, you will mistake each other.

JAMY. Ah! that's a foul fault. [A parley sounded]

GOWER. The town sounds a parley.

FLUELLEN. Captain Macmorris, when there is more better opportunity to be required, look you, I will be so bold as to tell you I know the disciplines of war; and there is an end. Exeunt

SCENE III.

Before the gates of Harfleur

Enter the GOVERNOR and some citizens on the walls. Enter the KING and all his train before the gates

KING HENRY. How yet resolves the Governor of the town?

This is the latest parle we will admit; Therefore to our best mercy give yourselves Or, like to men proud of destruction, Defy us to our worst; for, as I am a soldier, A name that in my thoughts becomes me best, If I begin the batt'ry once again, I will not leave the half-achieved Harfleur Till in her ashes she lie buried.

The gates of mercy shall be all shut up, And the flesh'd soldier, rough and hard of heart, In liberty of b.l.o.o.d.y hand shall range With conscience wide as h.e.l.l, mowing like gra.s.s Your fresh fair virgins and your flow'ring infants.

What is it then to me if impious war, Array'd in flames, like to the prince of fiends, Do, with his smirch'd complexion, all fell feats Enlink'd to waste and desolation?

What is't to me when you yourselves are cause, If your pure maidens fall into the hand Of hot and forcing violation?

What rein can hold licentious wickednes When down the hill he holds his fierce career?

We may as bootless spend our vain command Upon th' enraged soldiers in their spoil, As send precepts to the Leviathan To come ash.o.r.e. Therefore, you men of Harfleur, Take pity of your town and of your people Whiles yet my soldiers are in my command; Whiles yet the cool and temperate wind of grace O'erblows the filthy and contagious clouds Of heady murder, spoil, and villainy.

If not- why, in a moment look to see The blind and b.l.o.o.d.y with foul hand Defile the locks of your shrill-shrieking daughters; Your fathers taken by the silver beards, And their most reverend heads dash'd to the walls; Your naked infants spitted upon pikes, Whiles the mad mothers with their howls confus'd Do break the clouds, as did the wives of Jewry At Herod's b.l.o.o.d.y-hunting slaughtermen.

What say you? Will you yield, and this avoid?

Or, guilty in defence, be thus destroy'd?

GOVERNOR. Our expectation hath this day an end: The Dauphin, whom of succours we entreated, Returns us that his powers are yet not ready To raise so great a siege. Therefore, great King, We yield our town and lives to thy soft mercy.

Enter our gates; dispose of us and ours; For we no longer are defensible.

KING HENRY. Open your gates. [Exit GOVERNOR] Come, uncle Exeter, Go you and enter Harfleur; there remain, And fortify it strongly 'gainst the French; Use mercy to them all. For us, dear uncle, The winter coming on, and sickness growing Upon our soldiers, we will retire to Calais.

To-night in Harfleur will we be your guest; To-morrow for the march are we addrest.

[Flourish. The KING and his train enter the town]

SCENE IV.

Rouen. The FRENCH KING'S palace

Enter KATHERINE and ALICE

KATHERINE. Alice, tu as ete en Angleterre, et tu parles bien le langage.

ALICE. Un peu, madame.

KATHERINE. Je te prie, m'enseignez; il faut que j'apprenne a parler. Comment appelez-vous la main en Anglais?

ALICE. La main? Elle est appelee de hand.

KATHERINE. De hand. Et les doigts?

ALICE. Les doigts? Ma foi, j'oublie les doigts; mais je me souviendrai. Les doigts? Je pense qu'ils sont appeles de fingres; oui, de fingres.

KATHERINE. La main, de hand; les doigts, de fingres. Je pense que je suis le bon ecolier; j'ai gagne deux mots d'Anglais vitement.

Comment appelez-vous les ongles?

ALICE. Les ongles? Nous les appelons de nails.

KATHERINE. De nails. Ecoutez; dites-moi si je parle bien: de hand, de fingres, et de nails.

ALICE. C'est bien dit, madame; il est fort bon Anglais.

KATHERINE. Dites-moi l'Anglais pour le bras.

ALICE. De arm, madame.

KATHERINE. Et le coude?

ALICE. D'elbow.

KATHERINE. D'elbow. Je m'en fais la repet.i.tion de tous les mots que vous m'avez appris des a present.

ALICE. Il est trop difficile, madame, comme je pense.

KATHERINE. Excusez-moi, Alice; ecoutez: d'hand, de fingre, de nails, d'arma, de bilbow.

ALICE. D'elbow, madame.

KATHERINE. O Seigneur Dieu, je m'en oublie! D'elbow.

Comment appelez-vous le col?

ALICE. De nick, madame.

KATHERINE. De nick. Et le menton?

ALICE. De chin.

KATHERINE. De sin. Le col, de nick; le menton, de sin.

ALICE. Oui. Sauf votre honneur, en verite, vous p.r.o.noncez les mots aussi droit que les natifs d'Angleterre.

KATHERINE. Je ne doute point d'apprendre, par la grace de Dieu, et en peu de temps.

ALICE. N'avez-vous pas deja oublie ce que je vous ai enseigne?

KATHERINE. Non, je reciterai a vous promptement: d'hand, de fingre, de mails- ALICE. De nails, madame.

KATHERINE. De nails, de arm, de ilbow.

ALICE. Sauf votre honneur, d'elbow.

KATHERINE. Ainsi dis-je; d'elbow, de nick, et de sin. Comment appelez-vous le pied et la robe?

ALICE. Le foot, madame; et le count.

KATHERINE. Le foot et le count. O Seigneur Dieu! ils sont mots de son mauvais, corruptible, gros, et impudique, et non pour les dames d'honneur d'user: je ne voudrais p.r.o.noncer ces mots devant les seigneurs de France pour tout le monde. Foh! le foot et le count! Neanmoins, je reciterai une autre fois ma lecon ensemble: d'hand, de fingre, de nails, d'arm, d'elbow, de nick, de sin, de foot, le count.

ALICE. Excellent, madame!

KATHERINE. C'est a.s.sez pour une fois: allons-nous a diner.

Exeunt

SCENE V.

The FRENCH KING'S palace

Enter the KING OF FRANCE, the DAUPHIN, DUKE OF BRITAINE, the CONSTABLE OF FRANCE, and others

FRENCH KING. 'Tis certain he hath pa.s.s'd the river Somme.

CONSTABLE. And if he be not fought withal, my lord, Let us not live in France; let us quit an, And give our vineyards to a barbarous people.

DAUPHIN. O Dieu vivant! Shall a few sprays of us, The emptying of our fathers' luxury, Our scions, put in wild and savage stock, Spirt up so suddenly into the clouds, And overlook their grafters?

BRITAINE. Normans, but b.a.s.t.a.r.d Normans, Norman b.a.s.t.a.r.ds!

Mort Dieu, ma vie! if they march along Unfought withal, but I will sell my dukedom To buy a s...o...b..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-rein'd jades, their barley-broth, Decoct their cold blood to such valiant heat?

And shall our quick blood, spirited with wine, Seem frosty? O, for honour 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 call them in their native lords!

DAUPHIN. By faith and honour, Our madams mock at us and plainly say Our mettle is bred out, and they will give Their bodies to the l.u.s.t of English youth To new-store France with b.a.s.t.a.r.d warriors.

BRITAINE. 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.

FRENCH KING. Where is Montjoy the herald? Speed him hence; Let him greet England with our sharp defiance.

Up, Princes, and, with spirit of honour edged More sharper than your swords, hie to the field: Charles Delabreth, High Constable of France; You Dukes of Orleans, Bourbon, and of Berri, Alengon, Brabant, Bar, and Burgundy; Jaques Chatillon, Rambures, Vaudemont, Beaumont, Grandpre, Roussi, and Fauconbridge, Foix, Lestrake, Bouciqualt, 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 va.s.sal 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 famish'd 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.