His party stronger battled than our whole.

His son, the braving Duke of Normandy,

Hath trimmed the mountain on our right hand up

In shining plate, that now the aspiring hill

Shows like a silver quarry, or an orb,

Aloft the which the banners, bannerets

And new-replenished pennants cuff the air

And beat the winds that, for their gaudiness,

Struggles to kiss them. On our left hand lies

Philippe, the younger issue of the King,

Coating the other hill in such array

That all his gilded upright pikes do seem

Straight trees of gold; the pendant ensigns, leaves,

And their device of antique heraldry,

Quartered in colours seeming sundry fruits,

Makes it the orchard of the Hesperides.

Behind us too the hill doth rear his height,

For, like a half-moon opening but one way,

It rounds us in. There, at our backs, are lodged

The fatal crossbows, and the battle there

Is governed by the rough Châtillion.

Then thus it stands: the valley for our flight

The King binds in, the hills on either hand

Are proudly royalizèd by his sons,

And on the hill behind stands certain death

In pay and service with Châtillion.

PRINCE OF WALES

Death’s name is much more mighty than his deeds.

Thy parcelling this power hath made it more

Than all the world! Call it but a power.

As many sands as these, my hands, can hold

Are but my handful of so many sands,

Eas‘ly ta’en up and quickly thrown away.

But if I stand to count them, sand by sand,

The number would confound my memory,

And make a thousand millions of a task

Which, briefly, is no more in deed than one.

These quarters, squadrons and these regiments

Before, behind us, and on either hand,

Are but a power. When we name a man,

His hand, his foot, his head hath several strengths,

And, being all but one self-instanced strength,

Why, all this many, Audley, is but one,

And we can call it all but one man’s strength.

He that hath far to go tells it by miles;

If he should tell the steps it kills his heart.

The drops are infinite that make a flood,

And yet, thou know’st, we call it but a rain.

There is but one France, and one king of France:

That France hath no more kings, and that same king

Hath but the puissant legion of one king.

And we have one. Then apprehend no odds,

For one to one is fair equality.

Enter a Herald from Jean King of France

What tidings, messenger? Be plain and brief.

HERALD

The King of France, my sovereign lord and master,

Greets by me his foe, the Prince of Wales.

If thou call forth a hundred men of name—

Of lords, knights, squires and English gentlemen—

And with thyself and those, kneel at his feet,

He straight will fold his bloody colours up

And ransom shall redeem lives forfeited.

If not, this day shall drink more English blood

Than e’er was buried in our British earth.

What is thy answer to his proffered mercy?

PRINCE OF WALES

This heaven that covers France contains the mercy

That draws from me submissive orisons.

That such base breath should vanish from my lips

To urge the plea of mercy to a man,

The Lord forbid. Return and tell thy King:

My tongue is made of steel, and it shall beg

My mercy on his coward burgonet.

Tell him my colours are as red as his,

My men as bold, our English arms as strong.

Return him my defiance in his face.

HERALD I go.

Exit

Enter a Herald from the Dauphin (Prince Charles of Normandy)

PRINCE OF WALES What news with thee?

SECOND HERALD

The Duke of Normandy, my lord and master,

Pitying thy youth is so engirt with peril,

By me hath sent a nimble-jointed jennet,

As swift as ever yet thou didst bestride,

And therewithal he counsels thee to fly,

Else death himself hath sworn that thou shalt die.

PRINCE OF WALES

Back with the beast unto the beast that sent him!

Tell him I cannot sit a coward’s horse.

Bid him today bestride the jade himself,

For I will stain my horse quite o‘er with blood

And double-gild my spurs, but I will catch him.

So tell the cap’ring boy, and get thee gone.

SECOND HERALD I go.

Exit

Enter a Herald from Prince Philippe, carrying a book

THIRD HERALD

Edward of Wales, Philippe, the second son

To the most mighty Christian King of France,

Seeing thy body’s living date expired,

All full of charity and Christian love

He offers the book to the Prince

Commends this book full fairly fraught with prayers

To thy fair hand, and for thy hour of life

Entreats thee that thou meditate therein,

And arm thy soul for her long journey towards.

Thus have I done his bidding and return.