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My Lord Melun, let this be copied out, And keep it safe for our remembrance: Return the precedent to these lords again; That, having our fair order written down, Both they and we, perusing o’er these notes, May know wherefore we took the sacrament And keep our faiths firm and inviolable.
My Lord Melun, let this be written down, And kept safe for our memory: Send it back to these lords again; So that, having our clear orders in writing, Both they and we, reviewing these notes, May know why we took the oath And keep our promises strong and unbroken.
Upon our sides it never shall be broken. And, noble Dauphin, albeit we swear A voluntary zeal and an unurged faith To your proceedings; yet believe me, prince, I am not glad that such a sore of time Should seek a plaster by contemn’d revolt, And heal the inveterate canker of one wound By making many. O, it grieves my soul, That I must draw this metal from my side To be a widow-maker! O, and there Where honourable rescue and defence Cries out upon the name of Salisbury! But such is the infection of the time, That, for the health and physic of our right, We cannot deal but with the very hand Of stern injustice and confused wrong. And is’t not pity, O my grieved friends, That we, the sons and children of this isle, Were born to see so sad an hour as this; Wherein we step after a stranger march Upon her gentle bosom, and fill up Her enemies’ ranks,--I must withdraw and weep Upon the spot of this enforced cause,-- To grace the gentry of a land remote, And follow unacquainted colours here? What, here? O nation, that thou couldst remove! That Neptune’s arms, who clippeth thee about, Would bear thee from the knowledge of thyself, And grapple thee unto a pagan shore; Where these two Christian armies might combine The blood of malice in a vein of league, And not to spend it so unneighbourly!
On our side, it will never be broken. And, noble Dauphin, even though we swear A willing commitment and a strong faith To support your cause; yet believe me, prince, I am not happy that such a painful moment Should try to heal by a rejected rebellion, And cure the deep wound of one injury By making many more. Oh, it pains my heart, That I must draw this sword from my side To become a widow-maker! Oh, and in a place Where honorable defense and rescue Are crying out for the name of Salisbury! But such is the nature of the times, That, for the sake of our rights, We cannot act except with the harsh hand Of severe injustice and confused wrong. And isn’t it a shame, oh my grieving friends, That we, the sons and children of this land, Were born to witness such a sad time as this; When we follow a foreign army’s march On our own land, and fill up The enemy’s ranks—oh, I must leave and weep For this forced cause— To honor a foreign nobility, And follow unfamiliar banners here? What, here? Oh, nation, that you could be moved! That Neptune’s arms, which surround you, Would carry you away from knowing who you are, And bind you to a pagan shore; Where these two Christian armies might unite The blood of hatred in a treaty of peace, And not waste it so unnecessarily!
A noble temper dost thou show in this; And great affections wrestling in thy bosom Doth make an earthquake of nobility. O, what a noble combat hast thou fought Between compulsion and a brave respect! Let me wipe off this honourable dew, That silverly doth progress on thy cheeks: My heart hath melted at a lady’s tears, Being an ordinary inundation; But this effusion of such manly drops, This shower, blown up by tempest of the soul, Startles mine eyes, and makes me more amazed Than had I seen the vaulty top of heaven Figured quite o’er with burning meteors. Lift up thy brow, renowned Salisbury, And with a great heart heave away the storm: Commend these waters to those baby eyes That never saw the giant world enraged; Nor met with fortune other than at feasts, Full of warm blood, of mirth, of gossiping. Come, come; for thou shalt thrust thy hand as deep Into the purse of rich prosperity As Lewis himself: so, nobles, shall you all, That knit your sinews to the strength of mine. And even there, methinks, an angel spake:
You show great spirit in this; And the strong feelings wrestling in your chest Cause an earthquake in your nobility. Oh, what a noble struggle you have fought Between what was forced upon you and your noble respect! Let me wipe away this honorable tear, That silverly slides down your cheeks: My heart has melted at a lady’s tears, Being a normal outpouring; But this outpouring of such manly tears, This rain, driven by a storm of the soul, Shocks my eyes, and makes me more amazed Than if I had seen the sky above filled With burning meteors. Lift your head up, renowned Salisbury, And with a great heart push away the storm: Give these tears to those baby eyes That have never seen the world in anger; Nor met with fortune other than in feasts, Full of warmth, laughter, and gossip. Come, come; for you shall reach as deep Into the purse of wealth As Lewis himself: so, nobles, will you all, That join your strength to mine. And even here, I think, an angel spoke:
Look, where the holy legate comes apace, To give us warrant from the hand of heaven And on our actions set the name of right With holy breath.
Look, here comes the holy representative, To give us approval from heaven And put the stamp of righteousness On our actions with holy words.
Hail, noble prince of France! The next is this, King John hath reconciled Himself to Rome; his spirit is come in, That so stood out against the holy church, The great metropolis and see of Rome: Therefore thy threatening colours now wind up; And tame the savage spirit of wild war, That like a lion foster’d up at hand, It may lie gently at the foot of peace, And be no further harmful than in show.
Hail, noble prince of France! The news is this, King John has reconciled Himself to Rome; his spirit has returned, The one who once stood against the holy church, The great city and center of Rome: So now, take down your threatening banners; And tame the wild spirit of war, That like a lion raised nearby, May now lie gently at the feet of peace, And be no more harmful than it seems.
Your grace shall pardon me, I will not back: I am too high-born to be propertied, To be a secondary at control, Or useful serving-man and instrument, To any sovereign state throughout the world. Your breath first kindled the dead coal of wars Between this chastised kingdom and myself, And brought in matter that should feed this fire; And now ’tis far too huge to be blown out With that same weak wind which enkindled it. You taught me how to know the face of right, Acquainted me with interest to this land, Yea, thrust this enterprise into my heart; And come ye now to tell me John hath made His peace with Rome? What is that peace to me? I, by the honour of my marriage-bed, After young Arthur, claim this land for mine; And, now it is half-conquer’d, must I back Because that John hath made his peace with Rome? Am I Rome’s slave? What penny hath Rome borne, What men provided, what munition sent, To underprop this action? Is’t not I That undergo this charge? who else but I, And such as to my claim are liable, Sweat in this business and maintain this war? Have I not heard these islanders shout out ’Vive le roi!’ as I have bank’d their towns? Have I not here the best cards for the game, To win this easy match play’d for a crown? And shall I now give o’er the yielded set? No, no, on my soul, it never shall be said.
Your grace will forgive me, I will not retreat: I am too noble to be controlled, To be a secondary player, Or a useful servant and tool, To any kingdom in the world. Your words started the war Between this kingdom and mine, And brought in matters that fueled this fire; And now it’s far too big to be put out With that same weak breath that started it. You taught me how to see the face of right, Made me aware of my claim to this land, Yes, you made me take this cause to heart; And now you come to tell me John has made His peace with Rome? What does that peace mean to me? I, by the honor of my marriage vows, After young Arthur, claim this land as mine; And now that it is half-conquered, must I retreat Because John has made his peace with Rome? Am I a slave to Rome? What has Rome done, What men has it sent, what weapons supplied, To support this action? Am I not the one Who takes on this charge? Who else but I, And those bound to my claim, Sweat and struggle in this war? Haven’t I heard these islanders shout ’Long live the king!’ as I took their towns? Don’t I have the best cards in this game, To win this easy crown? And now should I quit this fight? No, no, on my soul, it will never be said.
You look but on the outside of this work.
You’re only looking at the surface of this matter.
Outside or inside, I will not return Till my attempt so much be glorified As to my ample hope was promised Before I drew this gallant head of war, And cull’d these fiery spirits from the world, To outlook conquest and to win renown Even in the jaws of danger and of death.
Surface or depth, I will not back down Until my effort is as glorious As what I hoped for Before I raised this banner of war, And gathered these fiery spirits from the world, To look beyond victory and earn renown Even in the face of danger and death.
What lusty trumpet thus doth summon us?
What loud trumpet is calling us?
According to the fair play of the world, Let me have audience; I am sent to speak: My holy lord of Milan, from the king I come, to learn how you have dealt for him; And, as you answer, I do know the scope And warrant limited unto my tongue.
According to the fair rules of the world, Let me speak; I’ve been sent to talk: My noble lord of Milan, I come from the king To learn how you’ve acted on his behalf; And as you answer, I understand the limits And permission granted to what I can say.
The Dauphin is too wilful-opposite, And will not temporize with my entreaties; He flatly says he’ll not lay down his arms.
The Dauphin is too stubborn, And won’t listen to my pleas; He flatly says he won’t lay down his arms.
By all the blood that ever fury breathed, The youth says well. Now hear our English king; For thus his royalty doth speak in me. He is prepared, and reason too he should: This apish and unmannerly approach, This harness’d masque and unadvised revel, This unhair’d sauciness and boyish troops, The king doth smile at; and is well prepared To whip this dwarfish war, these pigmy arms, From out the circle of his territories. That hand which had the strength, even at your door, To cudgel you and make you take the hatch, To dive like buckets in concealed wells, To crouch in litter of your stable planks, To lie like pawns lock’d up in chests and trunks, To hug with swine, to seek sweet safety out In vaults and prisons, and to thrill and shake Even at the crying of your nation’s crow, Thinking his voice an armed Englishman; Shall that victorious hand be feebled here, That in your chambers gave you chastisement? No: know the gallant monarch is in arms And like an eagle o’er his aery towers, To souse annoyance that comes near his nest. And you degenerate, you ingrate revolts, You bloody Neroes, ripping up the womb Of your dear mother England, blush for shame; For your own ladies and pale-visaged maids Like Amazons come tripping after drums, Their thimbles into armed gauntlets change, Their needles to lances, and their gentle hearts To fierce and bloody inclination.
By all the blood that has ever been spilled in anger, The young man speaks rightly. Now listen to our English king; For in me, his royal will speaks. He’s ready, and it makes sense that he should be: This childish and rude approach, This armored parade and reckless celebration, This unrefined insolence and childish armies, The king laughs at it; and is well prepared To end this tiny war, these weak forces, And drive them out of his lands. That hand which had the strength, even at your door, To beat you and make you surrender, To dive like buckets in hidden wells, To crouch in your stable like a rat, To hide like pawns locked in chests and trunks, To roll in the muck with pigs, to seek safety In vaults and prisons, and tremble and shake At the crowing of your country’s rooster, Thinking its call is an armed Englishman; Shall that victorious hand be weakened here, That once punished you in your chambers? No: know that the brave king is in arms And like an eagle over his high towers, To swoop down on any threat near his nest. And you traitors, you ungrateful rebels, You bloody Neros, tearing apart the womb Of your beloved mother England, feel shame; For your own women and pale-faced maids Like warriors come marching to the drums, Their thimbles turned into armored gloves, Their needles into lances, and their gentle hearts Turned to fierce and bloody purpose.
There end thy brave, and turn thy face in peace; We grant thou canst outscold us: fare thee well; We hold our time too precious to be spent With such a brabbler.
End your speech, and turn your face in peace; We grant you can outtalk us: goodbye; We value our time too much to waste On such a loudmouth.
Give me leave to speak.
Let me speak.
No, I will speak.
No, I will speak.
We will attend to neither. Strike up the drums; and let the tongue of war Plead for our interest and our being here.
We won’t listen to either of you. Start the drums; let the voice of war Argue for our cause and our presence here.
Indeed your drums, being beaten, will cry out; And so shall you, being beaten: do but start An echo with the clamour of thy drum, And even at hand a drum is ready braced That shall reverberate all as loud as thine; Sound but another, and another shall As loud as thine rattle the welkin’s ear And mock the deep-mouth’d thunder: for at hand, Not trusting to this halting legate here, Whom he hath used rather for sport than need Is warlike John; and in his forehead sits A bare-ribb’d death, whose office is this day To feast upon whole thousands of the French.
Indeed, your drums will sound, and so will you, when beaten: Just start an echo with the noise of your drum, And another drum will immediately respond As loud as yours; Strike one more, and another will Resound as loudly as yours and shake the heavens And mock the thunder: for, nearby, Not relying on this halting messenger, Who he has used more for amusement than necessity, Is warlike John; and on his brow sits A death that is ready to feast on thousands of the French.
Strike up our drums, to find this danger out.
Start our drums, to find out this danger.
And thou shalt find it, Dauphin, do not doubt.
And you’ll find it, Dauphin, don’t doubt it.