Original
Modern English
The sun doth gild our armour; up, my lords!
The sun is shining on our armor; up, my lords!
Montez A cheval! My horse! varlet! laquais! ha!
Get on horseback! My horse! servant! lackey! ha!
O brave spirit!
Oh, what a brave spirit!
Via! les eaux et la terre.
Come on! the waters and the land.
Rien puis? L’air et la feu.
Nothing more? The air and the fire.
Ciel, cousin Orleans.
Heaven, cousin Orleans.
Now, my lord constable!
Now, my lord constable!
Hark, how our steeds for present service neigh!
Listen, how our horses neigh for action!
Mount them, and make incision in their hides, That their hot blood may spin in English eyes, And dout them with superfluous courage, ha!
Mount them, and cut their skins, So their hot blood can blind the English, And scare them with unnecessary courage, ha!
What, will you have them weep our horses’ blood? How shall we, then, behold their natural tears?
What, do you want them to cry over our horses’ blood? How will we then see their real tears?
The English are embattled, you French peers.
The English are in battle formation, you French lords.
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.
Get on your horses, you noble princes! Quick, to your horses! Just look at that poor, starving group, And your great appearance will drain their strength, Leaving them nothing but weak shells of men. There’s not enough work for all of us; Hardly enough blood in their sickly veins To stain each of our swords, That our French knights will draw out today, And put away because there’s no challenge: let’s just blow on them, The sheer force of our bravery will knock them over. It’s guaranteed against all odds, lords, That our extra servants and peasants, Who swarm around our battle lines for no reason Are enough to clear this field of such a weak enemy, Even if we stood here idly on this mountain, Watching the action for mere curiosity: But our honor must not allow that. What’s there to say? We can do very little. Let’s just do that. And that’s enough. Now let the trumpets sound The signal and the call to mount up; For our approach will be so bold on the field That England will be forced to bow in fear and surrender.
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 beggar’d 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 gimmal bit Lies foul with chew’d 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.
Why are you taking so long, my lords of France? Those English corpses, desperate to survive, Unfavorably face the morning field: Their ragged flags are barely flying, And our wind blows them around, mocking them: Big Mars seems bankrupt among their weak forces And weakly peeks through a rusty helmet: The horsemen sit still like fixed candles, Holding torches in their hands; and their poor horses Hang their heads low, dragging their bodies and tails, The tears dripping from their pale, dead eyes And in their pale, dull mouths the twisted bit Is dirty with chewed-up grass, still and unmoving; And their executioners, the sneaky crows, Fly over them, impatient for their time to come. Words can’t even describe The reality of such a battle In a life so lifeless as it is now.
They have said their prayers, and they stay for death.
They’ve said their prayers, and they’re just waiting to die.
Shall we go send them dinners and fresh suits And give their fasting horses provender, And after fight with them?
Should we send them some food and fresh clothes And give their starving horses some feed, And then fight them?
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.
I’m just waiting for my flag: to the field! I’ll take the banner from a trumpet, And use it to hurry us along. Come, come, let’s go! The sun is high, and we’ve outlasted the day.