lackeys and our peasants,
Who in unnecessary action swarm
About our squares of battle, were enow
purge this field of such a hilding foe,
Though we upon this mountain's basis by
Took stand for idle speculation:
that our honours must not. What's to say?
A very little little let us do.
And all is done. Then let the trumpets
The tucket sonance and the note to mount;
For our approach shall so much dare the field
England shall couch down in fear and yield.
Why do you stay so long, my lords of France?
Yon island carrions, desperate of their bones,
become the morning field:
Their ragged curtains poorly are let loose,
And our air shakes them passing
Big Mars seems bankrupt in their beggar'd host
And faintly through a rusty beaver peeps:
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
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.
They have said their prayers, and they stay for death.
Shall we go send them dinners and fresh suits
And give their fasting horses provender,
And after fight
I stay but for my guidon: to the field!
I will the banner from a trumpet take,
And use it for my haste. Come,
The sun is high, and we outwear the day.
Copyright: All texts on Bibliomania are © Bibliomania.com Ltd,
and may not be reproduced in any form without our written permission.
See our FAQ for more details.