Robert of Artois, banish’d though thou be
From France, thy native country, yet with us
Thou shalt retain as great a signiory;
For we create thee Earl of Richmond here.
And now go forwards with our pedigree;
Who next succeeded Philip Le Beau?

Three sons of his; which all, successfully,
Did sit upon their father’s regal throne,
Yet died and left no issue of their loins.

She was, my lord; and only Isabel
Was all the daughters that this Philip had:
Whom afterward your father took to wife;
And from the fragrant garden of her womb,
Your gracious self, the flower of Europe’s hope,
Derived is inheritor to France.
But note the rancour of rebellious minds.
When thus the lineage of Le Beau was out,
The French obscur’d your mother’s privilege;
And, though she were the next of blood, proclaim’d
John, of the house of Valois, now their king:
The reason was, they say, the realm of France,
Replete with princes of great parentage,
Ought not admit a governor to rule
Except he be descended of the male;
And that’s the special ground of their contempt
Wherewith they study to exclude your grace:
But they shall find that forged ground of theirs
To be but dusty heaps of brittle sand.
Perhaps it will be thought a heinous thing
That I, a Frenchman, should discover this:
But Heaven I call to record of my vows;
It is not hate nor any private wrong,
But love unto my country and the right,
Provokes my tongue thus lavish in report:
You are the lineal watchman of our peace,
And John of Valois indirectly climbs:
What then should subjects, but embrace their king?
And wherein may our duty more be seen,
Than striving to rebate a tyrant’s pride
And place the true shepherd of our commonwealth?

This counsel, Artois, like to fruitful showers,
Hath added growth unto my dignity:
And, by the fiery vigour of thy words,
Hot courage is engender’d in my breast,
Which heretofore was rack’d in ignorance,
But now doth mount with golden wings of fame,
And will approve fair Isabel’s descent
Able to yoke their stubborn necks with steel
That spurn against my sovereignty in France.⁠—Sound a horn.
A messenger?⁠—Lord Audley, know from whence. Exit Audley, and returns.

The Duke of Lorraine, having cross’d the seas,
Entreats he may have conference with your highness.

The most renowned prince, King John of France,
Doth greet thee, Edward: and by me commands,
That, for so much as by his liberal gift
The Guyenne dukedom is entail’d to thee,
Thou do him lowly homage for the same:
And, for that purpose, here I summon thee
Repair to France within these forty days,
That there, according as the custom is,
Thou may’st be sworn true liegeman to our king;
Or, else, thy title in that province dies,
And he himself will repossess the place.

See, how occasion laughs me in the face!
No sooner minded to prepare for France,
But straight I am invited, nay, with threats,
Upon a penalty, enjoin’d to come:
’Twere but a childish part to say him nay.⁠—
Lorraine, return this answer to thy lord:
I mean to visit him, as he requests;
But how? not servilely dispos’d to bend,
But like a conqueror to make him bow.
His lame unpolish’d shifts are come to light,
And truth hath pull’d the vizard from his face
That set a gloss upon his arrogance.
Dare he command a fealty in me?
Tell him, the crown, that he usurps, is mine,
And where he sets his foot, he ought to kneel:
’Tis not a petty dukedom that I claim,
But all the whole dominions of the realm;
Which if with grudging he refuse to yield,
I’ll take away those borrow’d plumes of his
And send him naked to the wilderness.

Then, Edward, here, in spite of all thy lords,
I do pronounce defiance to thy face.

Defiance, Frenchman? we rebound it back,
Even to the bottom of thy master’s throat:
And⁠—be it spoke with reverence of the king
My gracious father, and these other lords.⁠—
I hold thy message but as scurrilous,
And him that sent thee, like the lazy drone
Crept up by stealth unto the eagle’s nest;
From whence we’ll shake him with so rough a storm,
As others shall be warned by his harm.

Bid him leave of the lion’s case he wears,
Lest, meeting with the lion in the field,
He chance to tear him piecemeal for his pride.

The soundest counsel I can give his grace
Is to surrender ere he be constrain’d.
A voluntary mischief hath less scorn,
Than when reproach with violence is borne.

Degenerate traitor, viper to the place
Where thou was foster’d in thine infancy, Drawing his sword.
Bear’st thou a part in this conspiracy?

Lorraine, behold the sharpness of this steel: Drawing his.
Fervent desire, that sits against my heart,
Is far more thorny-pricking than this blade;
That, with the nightingale, I shall be scar’d,
As oft as I dispose my self to rest,
Until my colours be display’d in France.
This is thy final answer; so be gone.

It is not that, nor any English brave,
Afflicts me so, as doth his poison’d view,
That is most false, should most of all be true. Exeunt Lorraine and Train.

Now, lords, our fleeting bark is under sail:
Our gage is thrown, and war is soon begun,
But not so quickly brought unto an end.⁠—

But wherefore comes Sir William Mountague?
How stands the league between the Scot and us?

Crack’d and dissever’d, my renowned lord.
The treacherous king no sooner was inform’d
Of your withdrawing of our army back,
But straight, forgetting of his former oath,
He made invasion on the bordering towns.
Berwick is won; Newcastle spoil’d and lost;
And now the tyrant hath begirt with siege
The castle of Roxborough, where enclos’d
The Countess Salisbury is like to perish.

That is thy daughter, Warwick⁠—is it not?⁠—
Whose husband hath in Britain serv’d so long,
About the planting of Lord Mountford there?

Ignoble David! hast thou none to grieve,
But silly ladies, with thy threat’ning arms?
But I will make you shrink your snaily horns.⁠—
First, therefore, Audley, this shall be thy charge;
Go levy footmen for our wars in France:
And, Ned, take muster of our men at arms:
In every shire elect a several band.
Let them be soldiers of a lusty spirit,
Such as dread nothing but dishonour’s blot:
Be wary therefore; since we do commence
A famous war and with so mighty a nation.
Derby, be thou ambassador for us
Unto our father-in-law, the Earl of Hainault:
Make him acquainted with our enterprise;
And likewise will him, with our own allies
That are in Flanders, to solicit too
The Emperour of Almaine in our name.
Myself, whilst you are jointly thus employ’d,
Will, with these forces that I have at hand,
March and once more repulse the trait’rous Scot.
But, sirs, be resolute; we shall have wars
On every side; and, Ned, thou must begin
Now to forget thy study and thy books
And ure thy shoulders to an armour’s weight.

As cheerful sounding to my youthful spleen
This tumult is of war’s increasing broils,
As at the coronation of a king
The joyful clamours of the people are
When, “Ave, Caesar!” they pronounce aloud.
Within this school of honour I shall learn,
Either to sacrifice my foes to death
Or in a rightful quarrel spend my breath.
Then cheerfully forward, each a several way;
In great affairs ’tis naught to use delay. Exeunt.

Alas, how much in vain my poor eyes gaze
For succour that my sovereign should send!
Ah, cousin Mountague, I fear, thou want’st
The lively spirit sharply to solicit
With vehement suit the king in my behalf:
Thou dost not tell him, what a grief it is
To be the scornful captive of a Scot;
Either to be woo’d with broad untuned oaths,
Or forc’d by rough insulting barbarism:
Thou dost not tell him, if he here prevail,
How much they will deride us in the north;
And, in their wild, uncivil, skipping jigs,
Bray forth their conquest and our overthrow,
Even in the barren, bleak, and fruitless air.

I must withdraw; the everlasting foe
Comes to the wall: I’ll closely step aside,
And list their babble, blunt and full of pride. Retiring behind the works.

My Lord of Lorraine, to our brother of France
Commend us, as the man in Christendom
That we most reverence and entirely love.
Touching your embassage, return and say
That we with England will not enter parley
Nor never make fair weather or take truce,
But burn their neighbour towns, and so persist
With eager roads beyond their city York.
And never shall our bonny riders rest,
Nor rusting canker have the time to eat
Their light-borne snaffles nor their nimble spurs;
Nor lay aside their jacks of gymold mail;
Nor hang their staves of grained Scottish ash
In peaceful wise upon their city walls;
Nor from their button’d tawny leathern belts
Dismiss their biting whinyards, till your king
Cry out, Enough; spare England now for pity.
Farewell, and tell him, that you leave us here
Before this castle; say, you came from us
Even when we had that yielded to our hands.

I take my leave, and fairly will return
Your acceptable greeting to my king. Exit.

Now, Douglas, to our former task again,
For the division of this certain spoil.

Nay, soft ye, sir, first I must make my choice;
And first I do bespeak her for myself.

Those are her own, still liable to her,
And, who inherits her, hath those withal.

My liege, as we were pricking on the hills,
To fetch in booty, marching hitherward
We might descry a might host of men;
The sun, reflecting on the armour, show’d
A field of plate, a wood of pikes advanc’d;
Bethink your highness speedily herein.
An easy march within four hours will bring
The hindmost rank unto this place, my liege.

Say, good my lord, which is he, must have the lady,
And which, her jewels? I am sure, my lords,
Ye will not hence, till you have shar’d the spoils.

She heard the messenger and heard our talk;
And now that comfort makes her scorn at us.

After the French ambassador, my liege,
And tell him that you dare not ride to York;
Excuse it, that your bonny horse is lame.

She heard that too; intolerable grief!⁠—
Woman, farewell: although I do not stay⁠—Exeunt Scots.

’Tis not for fear⁠—and yet you run away.⁠—
O happy comfort, welcome to our house!
The confident and boist’rous boasting Scot⁠—
That swore before my walls, they would not back
For all the armed power of this land⁠—
With faceless fear that ever turns his back,
Turn’d hence again the blasting north-east wind
Upon the bare report and name of arms.

How fares my aunt? Why, aunt,1 we are not Scots;
Why do you shut your gates against your friends?

Well may I give a welcome, cousin, to thee,
For thou com’st well to chase my foes from hence.

The king himself is come in person hither;
Dear aunt, descend, and gratulate his highness.

How may I entertain his majesty,
To show my duty and his dignity? Exit, from above.

What, are the stealing foxes fled and gone
Before we could uncouple at their heels?

They are, my liege; but, with a cheerful cry,
Hot hounds and hardy chase them at the heels.

Even she, my liege; whose beauty tyrant’s fear,
As a May blossom with pernicious winds,
Hath sullied, wither’d, overcast, and done.

My gracious king, fair is she not at all,
If that herself were by to stain herself,
As I have seen her when she was herself.

What strange enchantment lurk’d in those her eyes
When they excell’d this excellence they have,
That now their dim decline hath power to draw
My subject eyes from persing majesty
To gaze on her with doting admiration?

In duty lower than the ground I kneel
And for my dull knees bow my feeling heart,
To witness my obedience to your highness;
With many millions of a subject’s thanks
For this your royal presence, whose approach
Hath driven war and danger from my gate.

Lady, stand up: I come to bring thee peace,
However thereby I have purchas’d war.

No war to you, my liege; the Scots are gone,
And gallop home toward Scotland with their hate.

Lest yielding here I pine in shameful love,
Come, we’ll pursue the Scots;⁠—Artois, away!

A little while, my gracious sovereign, stay
And let the power of a mighty king
Honour our roof; my husband in the wars,
When he shall hear it, will triumph for joy:
Then, dear my liege, now niggard not thy state;
Being at the wall, enter our homely gate.

Pardon me, countess, I will come no near;
I dream’d to-night of treason, and I fear.

No farther off than her conspiring eye,
Which shoots infected poison in my heart
Beyond repulse of wit or cure of art.
Now in the sun alone it doth not lie
With light to take light from a mortal eye;
For here two day-stars, that mine eyes would see,
More than the sun, steals mine own light from me.
Contemplative desire! desire to be
In contemplation, that may master thee!
Warwick, Artois, to horse, and let’s away!

What needs a tongue to such a speaking eye
That more persuades than winning oratory?

Let not thy presence, like the April sun,
Flatter our earth and suddenly be done.
More happy do not make our outward wall
Than thou wilt grace our inner house withal.
Our house, my liege, is like a country swain,
Whose habit rude and manners blunt and plain
Presageth nought, yet inly beautified
With bounty’s riches and faire hidden pride:
For, where the golden ore doth buried lie,
The ground, undeck’d with nature’s tapestry,
Seems barren, sere, unfertile, fructless, dry;
And where the upper turf of earth doth boast
His pride, perfumes and parti-colour’d cost,
Delve there, and find this issue and their pride
To spring from ordure and corruption’s side.
But, to make up my all too long compare,
These ragged walls no testimony are,
What is within; but, like a cloak, doth hide,
From weather’s waste, the under-garnish’d pride.
More gracious then my terms can let thee be,
Intreat thyself to stay a while with me.

As wise as fair; what fond fit can be heard
When wisdom keeps the gate as beauty’s guard?⁠—
Countess, albeit my business urgeth me,
It shall attend while I attend on thee.⁠—
Come on, my lords, here will I host to-night. Exeunt.