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Gone to be married! gone to swear a peace! False blood to false blood join’d! gone to be friends! Shall Lewis have Blanch, and Blanch those provinces? It is not so; thou hast misspoke, misheard: Be well advised, tell o’er thy tale again: It cannot be; thou dost but say ’tis so: I trust I may not trust thee; for thy word Is but the vain breath of a common man: Believe me, I do not believe thee, man; I have a king’s oath to the contrary. Thou shalt be punish’d for thus frighting me, For I am sick and capable of fears, Oppress’d with wrongs and therefore full of fears, A widow, husbandless, subject to fears, A woman, naturally born to fears; And though thou now confess thou didst but jest, With my vex’d spirits I cannot take a truce, But they will quake and tremble all this day. What dost thou mean by shaking of thy head? Why dost thou look so sadly on my son? What means that hand upon that breast of thine? Why holds thine eye that lamentable rheum, Like a proud river peering o’er his bounds? Be these sad signs confirmers of thy words? Then speak again; not all thy former tale, But this one word, whether thy tale be true.
Gone to get married! gone to make peace! False blood joining with false blood! gone to be friends! Will Lewis take Blanch, and Blanch those lands? It’s not true; you’ve misunderstood, misheard: Think carefully, tell your story again: It can’t be true; you’re just saying it is: I don’t trust you; your word Is just the empty breath of a common man: Believe me, I don’t believe you, man; I have a king’s oath that says otherwise. You’ll be punished for scaring me like this, Because I’m sick and prone to fears, Weighed down by wrongs and therefore full of fears, A widow, without a husband, subject to fears, A woman, naturally born to fear; And even if you now say you were just joking, My troubled mind can’t take a break, But it will shake and tremble all day. What do you mean by shaking your head? Why do you look so sadly at my son? What does that hand mean on your chest? Why are your eyes full of tears, Like a proud river overflowing its banks? Are these sad signs proving your words? Then speak again; not all of your story, But just this one word, whether your story is true.
As true as I believe you think them false That give you cause to prove my saying true.
As true as I believe you think them false That make you try to prove my words true.
O, if thou teach me to believe this sorrow, Teach thou this sorrow how to make me die, And let belief and life encounter so As doth the fury of two desperate men Which in the very meeting fall and die. Lewis marry Blanch! O boy, then where art thou? France friend with England, what becomes of me? Fellow, be gone: I cannot brook thy sight: This news hath made thee a most ugly man.
Oh, if you teach me to believe this sorrow, Teach this sorrow how to make me die, And let belief and life meet like The fury of two desperate men Who fall and die when they clash. Lewis marrying Blanch! Oh boy, then where are you? France being friends with England, what happens to me? Man, leave: I can’t stand to look at you: This news has made you a very ugly man.
What other harm have I, good lady, done, But spoke the harm that is by others done?
What harm have I, good lady, done, But spoken of the harm that others have done?
Which harm within itself so heinous is As it makes harmful all that speak of it.
That harm, in itself, is so terrible That it makes harmful anyone who talks about it.
I do beseech you, madam, be content.
Please, mother, be calm.
If thou, that bid’st me be content, wert grim, Ugly and slanderous to thy mother’s womb, Full of unpleasing blots and sightless stains, Lame, foolish, crooked, swart, prodigious, Patch’d with foul moles and eye-offending marks, I would not care, I then would be content, For then I should not love thee, no, nor thou Become thy great birth nor deserve a crown. But thou art fair, and at thy birth, dear boy, Nature and Fortune join’d to make thee great: Of Nature’s gifts thou mayst with lilies boast, And with the half-blown rose. But Fortune, O, She is corrupted, changed and won from thee; She adulterates hourly with thine uncle John, And with her golden hand hath pluck’d on France To tread down fair respect of sovereignty, And made his majesty the bawd to theirs. France is a bawd to Fortune and King John, That strumpet Fortune, that usurping John! Tell me, thou fellow, is not France forsworn? Envenom him with words, or get thee gone And leave those woes alone which I alone Am bound to under-bear.
If you, who tell me to be calm, were grim, Ugly and disgraceful to your mother’s womb, Full of ugly marks and blind stains, Lame, foolish, crooked, dark, monstrous, Covered in disgusting moles and eye-sore spots, I wouldn’t care, I’d be calm then, Because then I wouldn’t love you, no, nor would you Be deserving of your noble birth or a crown. But you are beautiful, and at your birth, dear boy, Nature and Fortune joined to make you great: With Nature’s gifts, you could boast like lilies, And the half-blown rose. But Fortune, oh, She is corrupted, changed, and taken from you; She has betrayed you with your uncle John, And with her golden hand has turned France To trample on the respect for sovereignty, And made his majesty the pimp to theirs. France is a pimp to Fortune and King John, That whore Fortune, that usurping John! Tell me, you man, is France not dishonored? Poison him with words, or get out of here And leave these troubles which only I Am bound to carry alone.
Pardon me, madam, I may not go without you to the kings.
Forgive me, madam, I cannot leave without you going to the kings.
Thou mayst, thou shalt; I will not go with thee: I will instruct my sorrows to be proud; For grief is proud and makes his owner stoop. To me and to the state of my great grief Let kings assemble; for my grief’s so great That no supporter but the huge firm earth Can hold it up: here I and sorrows sit; Here is my throne, bid kings come bow to it.
You may leave, you shall leave; I will not go with you: I will teach my sorrows to be proud; For grief is proud and makes its owner bend. Let kings assemble for me and my grief, Because my grief is so great That only the huge firm earth Can support it: here I sit with sorrow; Here is my throne, let kings come and bow to it.
’Tis true, fair daughter; and this blessed day Ever in France shall be kept festival: To solemnize this day the glorious sun Stays in his course and plays the alchemist, Turning with splendor of his precious eye The meagre cloddy earth to glittering gold: The yearly course that brings this day about Shall never see it but a holiday.
It’s true, dear daughter; and this blessed day Will always be a festival in France: To celebrate this day, the glorious sun Stays in his course and plays the alchemist, Turning the dull earth into shining gold: The yearly cycle that brings this day around Will never see it as anything but a holiday.
A wicked day, and not a holy day!
A wicked day, and not a holy day!
What hath this day deserved? what hath it done, That it in golden letters should be set Among the high tides in the calendar? Nay, rather turn this day out of the week, This day of shame, oppression, perjury. Or, if it must stand still, let wives with child Pray that their burthens may not fall this day, Lest that their hopes prodigiously be cross’d: But on this day let seamen fear no wreck; No bargains break that are not this day made: This day, all things begun come to ill end, Yea, faith itself to hollow falsehood change!
What has this day earned? What has it done, That it should be written in gold Among the greatest days in the calendar? No, better yet, let this day be taken out of the week, This day of shame, oppression, and lies. Or, if it has to stay, let pregnant women Pray that their babies don’t come today, So their hopes won’t be terribly disappointed: But on this day, let sailors fear no shipwreck; Let no deals be broken that aren’t made today: This day, everything that starts ends badly, Yes, even faith itself turns into hollow lies!
By heaven, lady, you shall have no cause To curse the fair proceedings of this day: Have I not pawn’d to you my majesty?
By heaven, lady, you will have no reason To curse the good things that happened today: Have I not given you my power?
You have beguiled me with a counterfeit Resembling majesty, which, being touch’d and tried, Proves valueless: you are forsworn, forsworn; You came in arms to spill mine enemies’ blood, But now in arms you strengthen it with yours: The grappling vigour and rough frown of war Is cold in amity and painted peace, And our oppression hath made up this league. Arm, arm, you heavens, against these perjured kings! A widow cries; be husband to me, heavens! Let not the hours of this ungodly day Wear out the day in peace; but, ere sunset, Set armed discord ’twixt these perjured kings! Hear me, O, hear me!
You’ve deceived me with a fake Version of royalty, which, when tested, Turns out to be worthless: you’re lying, lying; You came with weapons to shed my enemies’ blood, But now, with weapons, you’re protecting them: The fierce energy and warlike frown Is cold in friendly talks and fake peace, And our suffering has created this alliance. Arm, arm, you heavens, against these lying kings! A widow cries; be my husband, heavens! Don’t let the hours of this sinful day End in peace; but before sunset, Send war between these lying kings! Hear me, oh, hear me!
Lady Constance, peace!
Lady Constance, calm down!
War! war! no peace! peace is to me a war O Lymoges! O Austria! thou dost shame That bloody spoil: thou slave, thou wretch, thou coward! Thou little valiant, great in villany! Thou ever strong upon the stronger side! Thou Fortune’s champion that dost never fight But when her humorous ladyship is by To teach thee safety! thou art perjured too, And soothest up greatness. What a fool art thou, A ramping fool, to brag and stamp and swear Upon my party! Thou cold-blooded slave, Hast thou not spoke like thunder on my side, Been sworn my soldier, bidding me depend Upon thy stars, thy fortune and thy strength, And dost thou now fall over to my fores? Thou wear a lion’s hide! doff it for shame, And hang a calf’s-skin on those recreant limbs.
War! War! No peace! Peace feels like war to me. Oh Lymoges! Oh Austria! You shame That bloody loot: you slave, you scoundrel, you coward! You are bold only when you’re on the stronger side! You’re Fortune’s champion, never fighting Except when her fickle luck is there To keep you safe! You’re a liar too, And you flatter greatness. What a fool you are, A fool who brags and stomps and swears Against my side! You cold-blooded slave, Didn’t you once roar like thunder for my cause, Swear to be my soldier, promising me That I could trust in your luck, your strength, your stars, And now you switch sides? You wear a lion’s skin! Take it off, you disgrace, and wear a calf’s-skin instead!
O, that a man should speak those words to me!
Oh, that a man should say such words to me!
And hang a calf’s-skin on those recreant limbs.
And wear a calf’s-skin instead!
Thou darest not say so, villain, for thy life.
You wouldn’t dare say that, villain, not to my face.
And hang a calf’s-skin on those recreant limbs.
And wear a calf’s-skin instead!
We like not this; thou dost forget thyself.
We don’t like this; you’ve forgotten yourself.
Here comes the holy legate of the pope.
Here comes the pope’s holy representative.
Hail, you anointed deputies of heaven! To thee, King John, my holy errand is. I Pandulph, of fair Milan cardinal, And from Pope Innocent the legate here, Do in his name religiously demand Why thou against the church, our holy mother, So wilfully dost spurn; and force perforce Keep Stephen Langton, chosen archbishop Of Canterbury, from that holy see? This, in our foresaid holy father’s name, Pope Innocent, I do demand of thee.
Hail, you anointed representatives of heaven! To you, King John, I have a sacred mission. I am Pandulph, Cardinal of Milan, And here on behalf of Pope Innocent, I ask in his name, Why do you so willfully defy the church, our holy mother, And refuse to allow Stephen Langton, the chosen archbishop Of Canterbury, to take his rightful place? This I demand in the name of our holy father, Pope Innocent.
What earthy name to interrogatories Can task the free breath of a sacred king? Thou canst not, cardinal, devise a name So slight, unworthy and ridiculous, To charge me to an answer, as the pope. Tell him this tale; and from the mouth of England Add thus much more, that no Italian priest Shall tithe or toll in our dominions; But as we, under heaven, are supreme head, So under Him that great supremacy, Where we do reign, we will alone uphold, Without the assistance of a mortal hand: So tell the pope, all reverence set apart To him and his usurp’d authority.
What earthly name could you give me, That would make me answer your accusations, As if I were accountable to the pope? You can’t, Cardinal, come up with a name So insignificant, unworthy, and ridiculous, To charge me with anything, as the pope would. Tell him this: and from England’s mouth, Add this: no Italian priest Will collect taxes or tolls in our lands; But as we are supreme rulers under heaven, So under Him, our supremacy Will stand alone, without any mortal help: So tell the pope, all respect aside For him and his usurped power.
Brother of England, you blaspheme in this.
Brother of England, you blaspheme in this.
Though you and all the kings of Christendom Are led so grossly by this meddling priest, Dreading the curse that money may buy out; And by the merit of vile gold, dross, dust, Purchase corrupted pardon of a man, Who in that sale sells pardon from himself, Though you and all the rest so grossly led This juggling witchcraft with revenue cherish, Yet I alone, alone do me oppose Against the pope and count his friends my foes.
Even though you and all the kings of Christendom Are so easily led by this meddling priest, Fearing the curse that money can buy off; And by the value of worthless gold, trash, dirt, Buy a corrupt pardon from a man, Who, in that transaction, sells pardon from himself, Even though you and everyone else are so easily led By this deceptive magic with money, you still support it, Yet I, alone, stand against the pope and count his friends my enemies.
Then, by the lawful power that I have, Thou shalt stand cursed and excommunicate. And blessed shall he be that doth revolt From his allegiance to an heretic; And meritorious shall that hand be call’d, Canonized and worshipped as a saint, That takes away by any secret course Thy hateful life.
Then, by the rightful power I have, You will be cursed and excommunicated. And blessed will be the one who rebels Against his allegiance to a heretic; And that hand will be called righteous, Canonized and worshipped as a saint, That takes your hateful life by any secret means.
O, lawful let it be That I have room with Rome to curse awhile! Good father cardinal, cry thou amen To my keen curses; for without my wrong There is no tongue hath power to curse him right.
Oh, may it be lawful That I have time with Rome to curse for a while! Good father cardinal, say amen To my sharp curses; for without my wrong No one else has the power to curse him properly.
There’s law and warrant, lady, for my curse.
There is law and authority, lady, for my curse.
And for mine too: when law can do no right, Let it be lawful that law bar no wrong: Law cannot give my child his kingdom here, For he that holds his kingdom holds the law; Therefore, since law itself is perfect wrong, How can the law forbid my tongue to curse?
And for mine too: when law cannot do what’s right, Let it be legal for the law to allow no wrong: Law cannot give my child his kingdom here, For he who controls the kingdom controls the law; So, since law itself is completely wrong, How can the law stop me from cursing him?
Philip of France, on peril of a curse, Let go the hand of that arch-heretic; And raise the power of France upon his head, Unless he do submit himself to Rome.
Philip of France, on the threat of a curse, Let go of that arch-heretic; And raise the power of France against him, Unless he submits himself to Rome.
Look’st thou pale, France? do not let go thy hand.
Are you pale, France? Don’t let go of your hand.
Look to that, devil; lest that France repent, And by disjoining hands, hell lose a soul.
Watch out, devil; lest France regret it, And by separating hands, hell lose a soul.
King Philip, listen to the cardinal.
King Philip, listen to the cardinal.
And hang a calf’s-skin on his recreant limbs.
And hang a calf’s-skin on his cowardly limbs.
Well, ruffian, I must pocket up these wrongs, Because--
Well, thug, I’ll have to swallow these insults, because—
Your breeches best may carry them.
Your pants are best suited to carry them.
Philip, what say’st thou to the cardinal?
Philip, what do you say to the cardinal?
What should he say, but as the cardinal?
What should he say, but what the cardinal says?
Bethink you, father; for the difference Is purchase of a heavy curse from Rome, Or the light loss of England for a friend: Forego the easier.
Think about it, father; for the choice Is either buying a heavy curse from Rome, Or the light loss of England for a friend: Choose the easier option.
That’s the curse of Rome.
That’s the curse of Rome.
O Lewis, stand fast! the devil tempts thee here In likeness of a new untrimmed bride.
Oh Lewis, stay strong! The devil is tempting you here In the form of a new, unprepared bride.
The Lady Constance speaks not from her faith, But from her need.
Lady Constance isn’t speaking from her faith, But from her desperation.
O, if thou grant my need, Which only lives but by the death of faith, That need must needs infer this principle, That faith would live again by death of need. O then, tread down my need, and faith mounts up; Keep my need up, and faith is trodden down!
Oh, if you help me with my need, Which only survives by the death of faith, Then that need must prove this rule, That faith would live again by the death of need. Oh then, crush my need, and faith rises up; Keep my need alive, and faith is crushed!
The king is moved, and answers not to this.
The king is moved, but doesn’t respond to this.
O, be removed from him, and answer well!
Oh, move away from him, and answer properly!
Do so, King Philip; hang no more in doubt.
Do so, King Philip; stop hesitating.
Hang nothing but a calf’s-skin, most sweet lout.
Don’t hang anything but a calf’s-skin, you sweet fool.
I am perplex’d, and know not what to say.
I am confused, and don’t know what to say.
What canst thou say but will perplex thee more, If thou stand excommunicate and cursed?
What can you say that won’t confuse you more, If you stand excommunicated and cursed?
Good reverend father, make my person yours, And tell me how you would bestow yourself. This royal hand and mine are newly knit, And the conjunction of our inward souls Married in league, coupled and linked together With all religious strength of sacred vows; The latest breath that gave the sound of words Was deep-sworn faith, peace, amity, true love Between our kingdoms and our royal selves, And even before this truce, but new before, No longer than we well could wash our hands To clap this royal bargain up of peace, Heaven knows, they were besmear’d and over-stain’d With slaughter’s pencil, where revenge did paint The fearful difference of incensed kings: And shall these hands, so lately purged of blood, So newly join’d in love, so strong in both, Unyoke this seizure and this kind regreet? Play fast and loose with faith? so jest with heaven, Make such unconstant children of ourselves, As now again to snatch our palm from palm, Unswear faith sworn, and on the marriage-bed Of smiling peace to march a bloody host, And make a riot on the gentle brow Of true sincerity? O, holy sir, My reverend father, let it not be so! Out of your grace, devise, ordain, impose Some gentle order; and then we shall be blest To do your pleasure and continue friends.
Good father, take me under your protection, And tell me what you think I should do. This royal hand and mine are newly joined, And our hearts united In a pact, bound by sacred vows; The last words we spoke were deep promises of faith, Peace, friendship, and love Between our kingdoms and ourselves, And even before this truce, though it’s new, No sooner than we could wash our hands To finalize this peace deal, Heaven knows, they were stained with blood, Where revenge had painted The terrifying conflict of angry kings: And should these hands, freshly cleansed of blood, So recently joined in love, so strong in both, Break this bond of peace? Play with faith? So make a joke of heaven, Turn ourselves into unsteady fools, And once again snatch peace away, Unswear oaths sworn, and on the wedding bed Of peaceful smiles lead a bloody army, And destroy the gentle truth Of sincerity? Oh, holy sir, My revered father, let it not happen! In your mercy, create some order; then we’ll be blessed To follow your will and stay friends.
All form is formless, order orderless, Save what is opposite to England’s love. Therefore to arms! be champion of our church, Or let the church, our mother, breathe her curse, A mother’s curse, on her revolting son. France, thou mayst hold a serpent by the tongue, A chafed lion by the mortal paw, A fasting tiger safer by the tooth, Than keep in peace that hand which thou dost hold.
All form is formless, order is unordered, Except for what goes against England’s love. Therefore, to arms! Be the champion of our church, Or let the church, our mother, curse her rebellious son. France, you may hold a serpent by the tongue, A raging lion by the deadly paw, A starving tiger by the tooth, But keeping that hand in peace, which you now hold,
I may disjoin my hand, but not my faith.
I can separate my hand, but not my faith.
So makest thou faith an enemy to faith; And like a civil war set’st oath to oath, Thy tongue against thy tongue. O, let thy vow First made to heaven, first be to heaven perform’d, That is, to be the champion of our church! What since thou sworest is sworn against thyself And may not be performed by thyself, For that which thou hast sworn to do amiss Is not amiss when it is truly done, And being not done, where doing tends to ill, The truth is then most done not doing it: The better act of purposes mistook Is to mistake again; though indirect, Yet indirection thereby grows direct, And falsehood falsehood cures, as fire cools fire Within the scorched veins of one new-burn’d. It is religion that doth make vows kept; But thou hast sworn against religion, By what thou swear’st against the thing thou swear’st, And makest an oath the surety for thy truth Against an oath: the truth thou art unsure To swear, swears only not to be forsworn; Else what a mockery should it be to swear! But thou dost swear only to be forsworn; And most forsworn, to keep what thou dost swear. Therefore thy later vows against thy first Is in thyself rebellion to thyself; And better conquest never canst thou make Than arm thy constant and thy nobler parts Against these giddy loose suggestions: Upon which better part our prayers come in, If thou vouchsafe them. But if not, then know The peril of our curses light on thee So heavy as thou shalt not shake them off, But in despair die under their black weight.
By doing that, you make faith an enemy to faith; And like a civil war, you set one oath against another, Your tongue against your own tongue. Oh, let your vow First made to heaven, first be kept with heaven, That is, to defend our church! What you swore before is now sworn against yourself And can’t be done by you, For what you swore to do wrong Is not wrong when done rightly, And not doing it, when it tends to harm, Makes truth most true by avoiding it: The better course of mistaken purposes Is to make another mistake again; though indirect, Yet indirection becomes direct, And falsehood corrects falsehood, as fire cools fire In the burned veins of one newly scorched. Religion is what keeps vows; But you’ve sworn against religion, By swearing against what you swore, And make an oath the proof of your truth Against another oath: you’re unsure To swear the truth, but swear just not to break it; Otherwise, what a joke would it be to swear! But you swear just to break your oath; And most broken, to keep the oath you swore. Therefore, your later vows against your first Are rebellion against yourself; And you can never conquer more Than to arm your nobler parts Against these foolish ideas: Our prayers are with your better part, If you’re willing to listen. But if not, then know The weight of our curses will fall on you So heavy, you won’t be able to escape them, And you’ll die in despair under their load.
Rebellion, flat rebellion!
Rebellion, pure rebellion!
Will’t not be? Will not a calfs-skin stop that mouth of thine?
Will it not happen? Won’t a calf’s-skin shut that mouth of yours?
Father, to arms!
Father, to arms!
Upon thy wedding-day? Against the blood that thou hast married? What, shall our feast be kept with slaughter’d men? Shall braying trumpets and loud churlish drums, Clamours of hell, be measures to our pomp? O husband, hear me! ay, alack, how new Is husband in my mouth! even for that name, Which till this time my tongue did ne’er pronounce, Upon my knee I beg, go not to arms Against mine uncle.
On your wedding day? Against the blood you’ve just married? What, should we celebrate with slaughtered men? Should we use the sound of trumpets and loud, rude drums, Screams of hell, as the music for our celebration? Oh husband, listen to me! Oh, how strange Is it to say "husband"! even for that title, Which until now my mouth never spoke, I beg you on my knees, don’t go to war Against my uncle.
O, upon my knee, Made hard with kneeling, I do pray to thee, Thou virtuous Dauphin, alter not the doom Forethought by heaven!
Oh, on my knees, Made stiff from kneeling, I pray to you, You noble Dauphin, don’t change the fate That heaven has planned!
Now shall I see thy love: what motive may Be stronger with thee than the name of wife?
Now I’ll see your love: what reason could Be stronger for you than the title of wife?
That which upholdeth him that thee upholds, His honour: O, thine honour, Lewis, thine honour!
The one thing that keeps him upright, the thing that holds him up, His honor: Oh, your honor, Lewis, your honor!
I muse your majesty doth seem so cold, When such profound respects do pull you on.
I wonder why your majesty seems so cold, When such deep respect is pulling you in.
I will denounce a curse upon his head.
I will place a curse on his head.
Thou shalt not need. England, I will fall from thee.
You won’t need to. England, I will leave you.
O fair return of banish’d majesty!
Oh, what a good return for banished royalty!
O foul revolt of French inconstancy!
Oh, what a shameful betrayal of French fickleness!
France, thou shalt rue this hour within this hour.
France, you will regret this moment within the hour.
Old Time the clock-setter, that bald sexton Time, Is it as he will? well then, France shall rue.
Old Time, the clockmaker, that bald gravedigger Time, Is it as he decides? Well, then, France shall regret.
The sun’s o’ercast with blood: fair day, adieu! Which is the side that I must go withal? I am with both: each army hath a hand; And in their rage, I having hold of both, They swirl asunder and dismember me. Husband, I cannot pray that thou mayst win; Uncle, I needs must pray that thou mayst lose; Father, I may not wish the fortune thine; Grandam, I will not wish thy fortunes thrive: Whoever wins, on that side shall I lose Assured loss before the match be play’d.
The sun is covered in blood: farewell, fair day! Which side should I join? I am with both: each army has a hand; And in their fury, as I hold both sides, They tear me apart and destroy me. Husband, I can’t pray that you may win; Uncle, I must pray that you may lose; Father, I can’t wish for your fortune; Grandmother, I won’t wish your fortunes to prosper: Whoever wins, I will lose on that side Certain loss before the battle is even fought.
Lady, with me, with me thy fortune lies.
Lady, your fortune lies with me, with me.
There where my fortune lives, there my life dies.
Where my fortune goes, there my life ends.
Cousin, go draw our puissance together.
Cousin, go gather our strength together.
France, I am burn’d up with inflaming wrath; A rage whose heat hath this condition, That nothing can allay, nothing but blood, The blood, and dearest-valued blood, of France.
France, I am burned up with raging anger; A fury so hot that it can only be cooled, By nothing but blood, the blood, and the most precious blood, of France.
Thy rage sham burn thee up, and thou shalt turn To ashes, ere our blood shall quench that fire: Look to thyself, thou art in jeopardy.
May your rage burn you up, and you will turn To ashes, before our blood will put out that fire: Watch yourself, you’re in danger.
No more than he that threats. To arms let’s hie!
No more than the one who threatens. Let’s go to arms!