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In liberty of bloody hand, shall range
With conscience wide as hell; mowing like grass
Your fresh-fair virgins, and your flowering 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 wickedness,
When down the hill he holds his fierce career?
We may as bootless spend our vain command
Upon the enraged soldiers in their spoil,
As send precepts to the Leviathan
To come ashore. 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 deadly murder, spoil, and villainy.
If not, why, in a moment, look to see
The blind and bloody soldier 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 bloody-hunting slaughtermen.
What say you will you yield, and this avoid ?
Or, guilty in defence, be thus destroyed ?

Goo. Our expectation hath this day an end :
The Dauphin, whom of succour we entreated,
Returns us—that his powers are not yet ready
To raise so great a siege. Therefore, dread 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.

K. Hen. Open your gates.-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'll retire to Calais.
To-night in Harfleur will we be your guest;
To-morrow for the march are we addrest.

(Flourish. The King, &c. enter the Town.

SCENE IV.- Rouen. A Room in the Palace.

Enter KATHARINE and ALICE. Kath. Alice, tu as esté en Angleterre, et tu parles bien le language.

Alice. Un peu madame.

Kath. Je te prie, m'enseigneuz; il faut que j'apprenne à parler. Comment appellez vous la main, en Anglois ?

Alice. La main? elle est appellée, de hand.
Kath. De hand. Et les doigts ?

Alice. Les doigts? may foy, je oublie les doigts ; mais je me souviendray. Les doigts? je pense, qu'ils sont appellé de fingres; ouy, de fingres.

Kath. La main, de hand; les doigts, de fingres. Je pense, que je suis le bon escolier. J'ay gagné deux mots ď Anglois vistement. Comment appellez vous les ongles ?

Alice. Les ongles ? les appellons, de nails.

Kath. De nails. Escoutez; dites moy, si je parle bien : de hand, de fingres, de nails.

Alice. C'est bien dit, madame; il est fort bon Anglois.
Kath. Dites moy en Anglois, le bras.
Alice. De arm, madame.
Kath. Et le coude.
Alice. De elbow.

Kath. De elbow. Je m'en faitz la repetition de tous les mots, que vous m'avez appris dès a present.

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

Kath. Excusez moy, Alice ; escoutez: De hand, de fingre, de nails, de arm, de bilbow.

Alice. De elbow, madame.

Kath. O Seigneur Dieu! je m'en oublie; De elbow. Comment appellez vous le col?

Alice. De neck, madame.
Kath. De neck: Et le menton?
Alice. De chin.
Kath. De sin. Le col, de neck: le menton, de sin.

Alice. Ouý. Sauf vostre honneur ; en verité, vous prononces les mots aussi droict que les natifs d'Angleterre.

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

Alice. N'avez vous pas deja oublié ce que je vous ay enseignée?

Kath. Non, je reciteray à vous promptement. De hand, de fingre, de mails,

Alice. De nails, madame.

Kath. De nails, de arme, de ilbow. Alice. Sauf vostre honneur, de elbow. Kath. Ainsi dis je; de elbow, de neck, et de sin: Comment appellez vous le pieds et la robe?

Alice. De foot, madame; et de con.

Kath. De foot, et de con? O Seigneur Dieu! ces sont mots de son mauvais, corruptible, grosse, et impudique, et non pour les dames d'honneur d'user: Je ne voudrois prononcer ces mots devant les Seigneurs de France, pour tout le monde. Il faut de foot, et de con, neant-moins. Je reciterai une autre fois ma leçon ensemble: De hand, de fingre, de nails, de arm, de elbow, de neck, de sin, de foot, de con.

Alice. Excellent, madame!
Kath. C'est assez pour une fois; allons nous a disner.

SCENE V.—The same.

Another Room in the same.

Enter the French King, the Dauphin, Duke of BOUR-'

BON, the Constable of France, and Others.
Fr. King. 'Tis certain, he hath pass'd the river Some.

Con. And 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.

Dau. 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 ?
Bour. Normans, but bastard Normans, Norman bas-


Mort de ma vie! if they march along
Unfought withal, but I will sell my dukedom,
To buy a slobbery and a dirty farm
In that nook-shotten isle of Albion. .

Con. Dieu de battailes! 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 may call them, in their native lords.

Dau. 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 lust of English youth,
To new store France with bastard warriors.

Bour. 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.
Fr. King. Where is Mountjóy, the herald ? speed him

Let him greet England with our sharp defiance.
Up, princes; and, with spirit of honour edg’d,
More sharper than your swords, hie to the field;
Charles De-la-bret, high constable of France;
You dukes of Orleans, Bourbon, and of Berry,

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