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,- What is't to me, when you yourselves are cause, Of hot and forcing violation? What rein can hold licentious wickedness, When down the hill he holds his fierce career? e 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 If not, why, in a moment, look to see And their most reverend heads dash'd to the walls; Whiles the mad mothers with their howls confus'd Gov. Our expectation hath this day an end: K. Hen. Open your gates.-Come, uncle Exeter, To-night in Harfleur will we be your guest; [Flourish. The King, &c. enter the Town. SCENE IV.-Roüen. 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 d'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. [Exeunt. SCENE V.-The same. Another Room in the same. Enter the French King, the Dauphin, Duke of BOURBON, 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 The emptying of our fathers' luxury, us, 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 tards! Mort de ma vie! if they march along Unfought withal, but I will sell my dukedom, 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, Upon our houses' thatch, whiles a more frosty people Our madams mock at us; and plainly say, 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 Mountjoy, the herald? speed him Let him greet England with our sharp defiance.- |