Here, till our navy of a thousand sail
Have made a breakfast to our foe by sea,
Let us encamp to wait their happy speed.⁠—
Lorraine, what readiness is Edward in?
How hast thou heard that he provided is
Of martial furniture for this exploit?

To lay aside unnecessary soothing
And not to spend the time in circumstance,
’Tis bruited for a certainty, my lord,
That he’s exceeding strongly fortified;
His subjects flock as willingly to war
As if unto a triumph they were led.

England was wont to harbour malcontents,
Bloodthirsty and seditious Catilines,
Spendthrifts, and such as gape for nothing else
But changing and alteration of the state;
And is it possible,
That they are now so loyal in themselves?

All but the Scot; who solemnly protests,
As heretofore I have inform’d his grace,
Never to sheathe his sword, or take a truce.

Ah, that’s the anch’rage of some better hope!
But, on the other side, to think what friends
King Edward hath retain’d in Netherland,
Among those ever-bibbing Epicures,
Those frothy Dutchmen, puff’d with double beer,
That drink and swill in every place they come,
Doth not a little aggravate mine ire:
Besides, we hear, the Emperor conjoins,
And stalls him in his own authority:
But, all the mightier that their number is,
The greater glory reaps the victory.
Some friends have we beside domestic power;
The stern Polonian, and the warlike Dane,
The king of Bohemia and of Sicily,
Are all become confederates with us,
And, as I think, are marching hither apace. Drum within.
But, soft, I hear the music of their drums,
By which I guess that their approach is near.

King John of France, as league and neighbourhood
Requires when friends are anyway distress’d,
I come to aide thee with my country’s force.

And from great Moscow, fearful to the Turk,
And lofty Poland, nurse of hardy men,
I bring these servitors to fight for thee
Who willingly will venture in thy cause.

Welcome, Bohemian king; and welcome, all:
This your great kindness I will not forget.
Besides your plentiful rewards in crowns,
That from our treasury ye shall receive,
There comes a hare-brain’d nation, deck’d in pride,
The spoil of whom will be a treble game.⁠—
And now my hope is full, my joy complete:
At sea, we are as puissant as the force
Of Agamemnon in the haven of Troy;
By land, with Xerxes we compare of strength
Whose soldiers drank up rivers in their thirst:
Then, Bayard-like, blind over-weening Ned,
To reach at our imperial diadem
Is either to be swallow’d of the waves
Or hack’d a-pieces when thou com’st ashore.

Near to the coast I have descried, my lord,
As I was busy in my watchful charge,
The proud Armado of King Edward’s ships:
Which at the first, far off when I did ken,
Seem’d as it were a grove of wither’d pines;
But, drawing near, their glorious bright aspect,
Their streaming ensigns wrought of colour’d silk,
Like to a meadow full of sundry flowers,
Adorns the naked bosom of the earth.
Majestical the order of their course,
Figuring the horned circle of the moon:
And on the top-gallant of the admiral,
And likewise all the handmaids of his train,
The arms of England and of France unite
Are quarter’d equally by herald’s art.
Thus, tightly carried with a merry gale,
They plough the ocean hitherward amain.

Dare he already crop the flower-de-luce?
I hope, the honey being gather’d thence,
He, with the spider, afterward approach’d,
Shall suck forth deadly venom from the leaves.⁠—
But where’s our navy? how are they prepar’d
To wing themselves against this flight of ravens?

They, having knowledge brought them by the scouts,
Did break from anchor straight; and, puff’d with rage
No otherwise then were their sails with wind,
Made forth, as when the empty eagle flies
To satisfy his hungry griping maw.

There’s for thy news. Return unto thy bark;
And, if thou scape the bloody stroke of war
And do survive the conflict, come again
And let us hear the manner of the fight.⁠—Exit Mariner.
Mean space, my lords, ’tis best we be dispers’d
To several places, lest they chance to land:
First, you, my lord, with your Bohemian troops,
Shall pitch your battles on the lower hand;
My eldest son, the Duke of Normandy,
Together with the aid of Muscovites,
Shall climb the higher ground another way;
Here in the middle coast, betwixt you both,
Philip, my youngest boy, and I will lodge.
So, lords, be gone, and look unto your charge;
You stand for France, an empire fair and large.⁠—Exeunt Charles, Lorraine, King of Bohemia, and Forces.
Now tell me, Philip, what is thy conceit,
Touching the challenge that the English make?

I say, my lord, claim Edward what he can,
And bring he ne’er so plain a pedigree,
’Tis you are in possession of the crown,
And that’s the surest point of all the law:
But, were it not, yet, ere he should prevail,
I’ll make a conduit of my dearest blood
Or chase those straggling upstarts home again.

Well said, young Philip! Call for bread and wine,
That we may cheer our stomachs with repast,
To look our foes more sternly in the face. A table and provisions brought in; King and his Son set down to it. Ordnance afar off.
Now is begun the heavy day at sea.
Fight, Frenchmen, fight; be like the field of bears,
When they defend their younglings in the caves!
Steer, angry Nemesis, the happy helm;
That with the sulphur battles of your rage
The English fleet may be dispers’d and sunk! Ordnance again.

O father, how this echoing cannon-shot,
Like sweetest harmony, digests my eats!

Now, boy, thou hear’st what thund’ring terror ’tis,
To buckle for a kingdom’s sovereignty.
The earth, with giddy trembling when it shakes,
Or when the exhalations of the air
Breaks in extremity of lightning flash,
Affrights not more than kings when they dispose
To show the rancour of their high-swoln hearts. Retreat heard.
Retreat is sounded; one side hath the worse:
O, if it be the French!⁠—Sweet Fortune, turn;
And, in thy turning, change the forward winds,
That, with advantage of a favouring sky,
Our men may vanquish and the other fly!

My heart misgives:⁠—say, mirror of pale death,
To whom belongs the honour of this day?
Relate, I pray thee, if thy breath will serve,
The sad discourse of this discomfiture.

I will, my lord.
My gracious sovereign, France hath ta’en the foil,
And boasting Edward triumphs with success.
These iron-hearted navies,
When last I was reporter to your grace,
Both full of angry spleen, of hope and fear,
Hasting to meet each other in the face,
At last conjoin’d, and by their admiral
Our admiral encounter’d many shot.
By this, the other, that beheld these twain
Give earnest-penny of a further wrack,
Like fiery dragons took their haughty flight;
And, likewise meeting, from their smoky wombs
Sent many grim ambassadors of death.
Then gan the day to turn to gloomy night;
And darkness did as well enclose the quick
As those that were but newly reft of life.
No leisure serv’d for friends to bid farewell;
And, if it had, the hideous noise was such,
As each to other seemed deaf and dumb.
Purple the sea; whose channel fill’d as fast
With streaming gore that from the maimed fell
As did her gushing moisture break into
The crannied cleftures of the through-shot planks.
Here flew a head, dissever’d from the trunk;
There mangled arms and legs were toss’d aloft,
As when a whirlwind takes the summer dust
And scatters it in middle of the air.
Then might ye see the reeling vessels split
And tottering sink into the ruthless flood
Until their lofty tops were seen no more.
All shifts were tried both for defence and hurt.
And now the effect of valour and of fear,
Of resolution and of cowardice,
We lively pictur’d; how the one for fame,
The other by compulsion laid about.
Much did the Nonpareille, that brave ship;
So did the Black-Snake of Bullen, than which
A bonnier vessel never yet spread sail:
But all in vain; both sun, the wind and tide
Revolted all unto our foemen’s side,
That we perforce were fain to give them way,
And they are landed: thus my tale is done;
We have untimely lost, and they have won.

Then rests there nothing, but with present speed
To join our several forces all in one,
And bid them battle ere they range too far.⁠—
Come, gentle Philip, let us hence depart;
This soldier’s words have pierc’d thy father’s heart. Exeunt.

Well met, my masters: how now? what’s the news?
And wherefore are ye laden thus with stuff?
What, is it quarter-day, that you remove
And carry bag and baggage too?

Quarter-day? aye, and quartering day, I fear:
Have ye not heard the news that flies abroad?

How the French navy is destroy’d at sea
And that the English army is arriv’d.

What then, quoth you? why, is’t not time to fly,
When envy and destruction is so nigh?

Content thee, man; they are far enough from hence;
And will be met, I warrant ye, to their cost,
Before they break so far into the realm.

Ay, so the grasshopper doth spend the time
In mirthful jollity, till winter come;
And then too late he would redeem his time
When frozen cold hath nipp’d his careless head.
He, that no sooner will provide a cloak
Than when he sees it doth begin to rain,
May, peradventure, for his negligence,
Be throughly wash’d when he suspects it not.
We that have charge and such a train as this
Must look in time to look for them and us,
Lest, when we would, we cannot be reliev’d.

Belike, you then despair of all success
And think your country will be subjugate.

Yet rather fight, than like unnatural sons
Forsake your loving parents in distress.

Tush, they that have already taken arms
Are many fearful millions in respect
Of that small handful of our enemies.
But ’tis a rightful quarrel must prevail;
Edward is son unto our late king’s sister,
When John Valois is three degrees remov’d.

Besides, there goes a prophecy abroad,
Publish’d by one that was a friar once
Whose oracles have many times prov’d true;
And now he says, “The time will shortly come,
When as a lion, roused in the west,
Shall carry hence the flower-de-luce of France”:
These, I can tell ye, and such-like surmises
Strike many Frenchmen cold unto the heart.

Fly, countrymen and citizens of France!
Sweet-flow’ring peace, the root of happy life,
Is quite abandon’d and expuls’d the land:
Instead of whom, ransack-constraining war
Sits like to ravens upon your houses’ tops;
Slaughter and mischief walk within your streets,
And, unrestrain’d, make havoc as they pass:
The form whereof even now myself beheld,
Upon this fair mountain, whence I came.
For so far off as I directed mine eyes,
I might perceive five cities all on fire,
Corn-fields and vineyards, burning like an oven;
And, as the reaking vapour in the wind
Turn’d but aside, I likewise might discern
The poor inhabitants, escap’d the flame,
Fall numberless upon the soldiers’ pikes.
Three ways these dreadful ministers of wrath
Do tread the measures of their tragic march.
Upon the right hand comes the conquering king,
Upon the left his hot unbridled son,
And in the midst our nation’s glittering host;
All which, though distant, yet conspire in one
To leave a desolation where they come.
Fly, therefore, citizens, if you be wise,
Seek out some habitation further off.
Here is you stay, your wives will be abus’d,
Your treasure shar’d before your weeping eyes.
Shelter yourselves, for now the storm doth rise.
Away, away! methinks, I hear their drums.
Ah, wretched France, I greatly fear thy fall;
Thy glory shaketh like a tottering wall. Exeunt.

Where is the Frenchman, by whose cunning guide
We found the shallow of this river Somme,
And had direction how to pass the sea?

Then, Gobin, for the service thou hast done,
We here enlarge and give thee liberty;
And, for a3 recompense, beside this good,
Thou shalt receive five hundred marks in gold.⁠—
I know not how, we should have met our son;
Whom now in heart I wish I might behold.

Good news, my lord; the prince is hard at hand,
And with him comes Lord Audley and the rest,
Whom since our landing we could never meet.

Welcome, fair prince! How hast thou sped, my son,
Since thy arrival on the coast of France?

Successfully, I thank the gracious heavens:
Some of their strongest cities we have won,
As Harflew, Lo, Crotaye, and Carentine,
And others wasted; leaving at our heels
A wide apparent field and beaten path
For solitariness to progress in:
Yet, those that would submit, we kindly pardon’d;
But who in scorn refus’d our proffer’d peace,
Endured the penalty of sharp revenge.

Ah, France, why shouldst thou be thus obstinate
Against the kind embracement of thy friends?
How gently had we thought to touch thy breast
And set our foot upon thy tender mould,
But that in froward and disdainful pride
Thou, like a skittish and untamed colt,
Dost start aside and strike us with thy heels?⁠—
But tell me, Ned, in all thy warlike course
Hast thou not seen the usurping King of France?

Yes, my good lord, and not two hours ago,
With full a hundred thousand fighting men,
Upon the one side of the river’s bank,
I on the other; with his multitudes
I fear’d he would have cropp’d our smaller power:
But, happily, perceiving your approach
He hath withdrawn himself to Cressy plains;
Where, as it seemeth by his good array,
He means to bid us battle presently.

Edward, know, that John, the true King of France⁠—
Musing thou shouldst encroach upon his land,
And, in thy tyrannous proceeding, slay
His faithful subjects and subvert his towns⁠—
Spits in thy face; and in this manner following
Upbraids thee with thine arrogant intrusion.
First, I condemn thee for a fugitive,
A thievish pirate, and a needy mate;
One, that hath either no abiding place,
Or else, inhabiting some barren soil,
Where neither herb nor fruitful grain is had,
Dost altogether live by pilfering:
Next⁠—insomuch thou hast infring’d thy faith,
Broke league and solemn covenant made with me⁠—
I hold thee for a false pernicious wretch:
And, last of all⁠—although I scorn to cope
With one so much inferior to myself;
Yet, in respect thy thirst is all for gold,
Thy labour rather to be fear’d than lov’d⁠—
To satisfy thy lust in either part,
Here am I come, and with me have I brought
Exceeding store of treasure, pearl and coin.
Leave therefore now to persecute the weak;
And armed ent’ring conflict with the arm’d,
Let it be seen, ’mongst other petty thefts,
How thou canst win this pillage manfully.

If gall or wormwood have a pleasant taste,
Then is thy salutation honey-sweet:
But as the one hath no such property,
So is the other most satirical.
Yet wot how I regard thy worthless taunts;⁠—
If thou have utter’d them to foil my fame
Or dim the reputation of my birth,
Know that thy wolvish barking cannot hurt:
If slily to insinuate with the world,
And with a strumpet’s artificial line
To paint thy vicious and deformed cause,
Be well assur’d the counterfeit will fade
And in the end thy foul defects be seen:
But if thou didst it to provoke me on⁠—
As who should say, I were but timorous,
Or coldly negligent did need a spur⁠—
Bethink thyself how slack I was at sea;
How, since my landing, I have won no towns,
Enter’d no further but upon the coast,
And there have ever since securely slept.
But if I have been otherwise employ’d,
Imagine, Valois, whether I intend
To skirmish, not for pillage, but for the crown
Which thou dost wear; and that I vow to have,
Or one of us shall fall into his grave.

Look not for cross invectives at our hands
Or railing execrations of despite:
Let creeping serpents hid in hollow banks
Sting with their tongues; we have remorseless swords,
And they shall plead for us and our affairs.
Yet thus much, briefly, by my father’s leave:
As all the immodest poison of thy throat
Is scandalous and most notorious lies,
And our pretended quarrel is truly just,
So end the battle when we meet to day:
May either of us prosper and prevail
Or, luckless curst, receive eternal shame!

That needs no further question, and, I know,
His conscience witnesseth, it is my right.⁠—
Therefore, Valois, say, wilt thou yet resign,
Before the sickle’s thrust into the corn
Or that inkindled fury turn to flame?

Edward, I know what right thou hast in France;
And ere I basely will resign my crown,
This champion field shall be a pool of blood
And all our prospect as a slaughter-house.

Ay, that approves thee, tyrant, what thou art:
No father, king or shepherd of thy realm;
But one that tears her entrails with thy hands
And, like a thirsty tyger, suck’st her blood.

You peers of France, why do you follow him
That is so prodigal to spend your lives?

Whom should they follow, aged impotent,
But he that is their true-born sovereign?

Upbraid’st thou him, because within his face
Time hath engrav’d deep characters of age?
Know, these grave scholars of experience,
Like stiff-grown oaks, will stand immovable,
When whirlwind quickly turns up younger trees.

Was ever any of thy father’s house
King, but thyself, before this present time?
Edward’s great linage, by the mother’s side,
Five hundred years hath held the sceptre up:⁠—
Judge then, conspirators, by this descent,
Which is the true-born sovereign, this, or that.

Father, range your battles, prate no more;
These English fain would spend the time in words,
That, night approaching, they escape unfought.

Lords and my loving subjects, now’s the time
That your intended force must bide the touch:
Therefore, my friends, consider this in brief⁠—
He that you fight for is your natural king;
He against whom you fight, a foreigner:
He that you fight for, rules in clemency
And reins you with a mild and gentle bit;
He against whom you fight, if he prevail,
Will straight enthrone himself in tyranny,
Make slaves of you, and with a heavy hand
Curtail and curb your sweetest liberty.
Then, to protect your country and your king,
Let but the haughty courage of your hearts
Answer the number of your able hands,
And we shall quickly chase these fugitives.
For what’s this Edward but a belly-god,
A tender and lascivious wantonness,
That th’ other day was almost dead for love?
And what, I pray you, is his goodly guard?
Such as, but scant them of their chines of beef
And take away their downy feather-beds,
And, presently, they are as resty-stiff
As ’twere a many over-ridden jades.
Then, Frenchmen, scorn that such should be your lords,
And rather bind ye them in captive bands.

Now on this plain of Cressy spread yourselves⁠—
And, Edward, when thou dar’st, begin the fight. Exeunt King John, Charles, Philip, Lorraine, Bohemia, and Forces.

We presently will meet thee, John of France:⁠—
And, English lords, let us resolve to-day
Either to clear us of that scandalous crime
Or be entombed in our innocence.⁠—
And, Ned, because this battle is the first
That ever yet thou fought’st in pitched field,
As ancient custom is of Martialists,
To dub thee with the type of chivalry,
In solemn manner we will give thee arms:⁠—
Come, therefore, heralds, orderly bring forth
A strong attirement for the prince my son.⁠—

Edward Plantagenet, in the name of God,
As with this armour I impale thy breast,
So be thy noble unrelenting heart
Wall’d in with flint of matchless fortitude
That never base affections enter there;
Fight and be valiant, conquer where thou com’st!⁠—
Now follow, lords, and do him honour too.

Receiving the helmet from the second Herald.

Receiving the lance from the third Herald.

Receiving the shield from the fourth Herald.

Now wants there nought but knighthood; which deferr’d
We leave till thou hast won it in the field.

My gracious father, and ye forward peers,
This honour, you have done me, animates
And cheers my green yet-scarce-appearing strength
With comfortable good-presaging signs,
No otherwise than did old Jacob’s words
When as he breath’d his blessings on his sons.
These hallow’d gifts of yours when I profane,
Or use them not to glory of my God,
To patronage the fatherless and poor,
Or for the benefit of England’s peace,
Be numb my joints! wax feeble both mine arms!
Wither my heart! that, like a sapless tree,
I may remain the map of infamy.

Then thus our steeled battles shall be rang’d;⁠—
The leading of the vaward, Ned, is thine;
To dignify whose lusty spirit the more,
We temper it with Audley’s gravity;
That, courage and experience join’d in one,
Your manage may be second unto none:
For the main battles, I will guide myself;
And, Derby, in the rearward march behind.
That orderly dispos’d and set in ’ray,
Let us to horse; and God grant us the day! Exeunt.

O Lorraine, say, what mean our men to fly?
Our number is far greater than our foes.

The garrison of Genoa’s, my lord,
That came from Paris, weary with their march,
Grudging to be so4 suddenly employ’d,
No sooner in the fore-front took their place,
But, straight retiring, so dismay’d the rest
As likewise they betook themselves to flight;
In which, for haste to make a safe escape,
More in the clust’ring throng are press’d to death,
Than by the enemy, a thousand-fold.

O hapless fortune! Let us yet assay
If we can counsel some of them to stay. Exeunt.

Lord Audley, whiles our son is in the chase,
Withdraw your powers unto this little hill,
And here a season let us breathe ourselves.

Just-dooming Heaven, whose secret providence
To our gross judgement is inscrutable,
How are we bound to praise thy wondrous works,
That hast this day giv’n way unto the right
And made the wicked stumble at themselves!

Rescue, Artois? what, is he prisoner?
Or by violence fell beside his horse?

Neither, my lord; but narrowly beset
With turning Frenchmen whom he did pursue,
As ’tis impossible that he should scape
Except your highness presently descend.

Tut, let him fight; we gave him arms to-day,
And he is labouring for a knighthood, man.

The prince, my lord, the prince! O, succour him;
He’s close encompass’d with a world of odds!

Then will he win a world of honour too
If he by valour can redeem him thence:
If not, what remedy? we have more sons
Than one, to comfort our declining age.

Renowned Edward, give me leave, I pray,
To lead my soldiers where I may relieve
Your grace’s son, in danger to be slain.
The snares of French, like emmets on a bank,
Muster about him; whilest he, lion-like,
Entangled in the net of their assaults,
Franticly rends and bites the woven toil:
But all in vain, he cannot free himself.

Audley, content; I will not have a man,
On pain of death, sent forth to succour him:
This is the day ordain’d by destiny
To season his courage with those grievous thoughts,
That, if he breathe out Nestor’s years on earth,
Will make him savour still of this exploit.

Yet, good my lord, ’tis too much wilfulness,
To let his blood be spilt that may be sav’d.

Exclaim no more; for none of you can tell
Whether a borrow’d aid will serve or no.
Perhaps, he is already slain or ta’en:
And dare a falcon when she’s in her flight,
And ever after she’ll be haggard-like:
Let Edward be deliver’d by our hands,
And still in danger he’ll expect the like;
But if himself himself redeem from thence,
He will have vanquish’d, cheerful, death and fear,
And ever after dread their force no more
Than if they were but babes or captive slaves.

But, soft; me thinks I hear Retreat sounded.
The dismal charge of trumpets’ loud retreat:
All are not slain, I hope, that went with him;
Some will return with tidings, good or bad.

First having done my duty, as beseem’d, Kneels, and kisses his father’s hand.
Lords, I regreet you all with hearty thanks.
And now, behold⁠—after my winter’s toil,
My painful voyage on the boist’rous sea
Of war’s devouring gulfs and steely rocks⁠—
I bring my fraught unto the wished port,
My summer’s hope, my travel’s sweet reward:
And here with humble duty I present
This sacrifice, this firstfruit of my sword,
Cropp’d and cut down even at the gate of death,
The King of Boheme, father, whom I slew;
Whose thousands had intrench’d me round about,
And lay as thick upon my batter’d crest
As on an anvil, with their pond’rous glaives:
Yet marble courage still did underprop;
And when my weary arms with often blows⁠—
Like the continual-lab’ring woodman’s axe
That is enjoin’d to fell a load of oaks⁠—
Began to falter, straight I would remember
My gifts you gave me and my zealous vow,
And then new courage made me fresh again;
That, in despite, I carv’d my passage forth
And put the multitude to speedy flight.
Lo, thus hath Edward’s hand fill’d your request,
And done, I hope, the duty of a knight.

Ay, well thou hast deserv’d a knighthood, Ned!
And, therefore, with thy sword, yet reeking warm Receiving it from the soldier who bore it and laying it on the kneeling Prince.
With blood of those that fought to be thy bane,
Arise, Prince Edward, trusty knight at arms:
This day thou hast confounded me with joy
And proved thyself fit heir unto a king.

Here is a note, my gracious lord, of those
That in this conflict of our foes were slain:
Eleven princes of esteem; fourscore
Barons; a hundred and twenty knights;
And thirty thousand common soldiers;
And, of our men, a thousand.

Our God be praised! Now, John of France, I hope,
Thou know’st King Edward for no wantonness,
No love-sick cockney; nor his soldiers, jades.⁠—
But which way is the fearful king escap’d?

Ned, thou and Audley shall pursue them still;
Myself and Derby will to Calice straight,
And there be begirt that Haven town with siege.
Now lies it on an upshot; therefore strike,
And wistly follow whiles the game’s on foot.
What picture’s this? Pointing to the colours.

A pelican, my lord,
Wounding her bosom with her crooked beak
That so her nest of young ones may be fed
With drops of blood that issue from her heart;
The motto, “Sic et vos,” “and so should you.” Flourish. Exeunt in triumph.