How fares your grace? Are you not shot, my lord?

No, dear Artois, but choked with dust and smoke,

14.42215And stepped aside for breath and fresher air.

Breathe then, and to it again. The amazed French

14.62217Are quite distract with gazing on the crows,

14.72218And were our quivers full of shafts again

14.82219Your grace should see a glorious day of this.

14.92220O for more arrows, Lord; that's our want.

Courage, Artois; a fig for feathered shafts

14.112222When feathered fowls do bandy on our side!

14.122223What need we fight and sweat and keep a coil,

14.132224When railing crows outscold our adversaries?

14.142225Up, up, Artois! The ground itself is armed

14.152226With fire-containing flint; command our bows

14.162227To hurl away their pretty colored yew

14.172228And to it with stones. Away, Artois, away!

14.182229My soul doth prophecy we win the day.

Our multitudes are in themselves confounded,

14.222232Dismayèd, and distraught; swift-starting fear

14.232233Hath buzzed a cold dismay through all our army,

14.242234And every petty disadvantage prompts

14.252235The fear-possessèd abject soul to fly.

14.262236Myself, whose spirit is steel to their dull lead,

14.272237What with recalling of the prophecy,

14.282238And that our native stones from English arms

14.292239Rebel against us, find myself attainted

14.302240With strong surprise of weak and yielding fear.

Fly, father, fly! The French do kill the French:

14.332243Some that would stand let drive at some that fly.

14.342244Our drums strike nothing but discouragement,

14.352245Our trumpets sound dishonor and retire,

14.362246The spirit of fear that feareth naught but death

14.372247Cowardly works confusion on itself.

Pluck out your eyes, and see not this day's shame!

14.402250An arm hath beat an army: one poor David

14.412251Hath with a stone foiled twenty stout Goliaths;

14.422252Some twenty naked starvelings with small flints

14.432253Hath driven back a puissant host of men

14.442254Arrayed and fenced in all accomplements.

Mort Dieu! They quoit at us and kill us up.

14.462256No less than forty thousand wicked elders

14.472257Have forty lean slaves this day stoned to death.

Oh, that I were some other countryman!

14.492259This day hath set derision on the French

14.502260And all the world will blurt and scorn at us.

What, is there no hope left?

No hope but death to bury up our shame.

Make up once more with me! The twentieth part

14.542264Of those that live are men enow to quail

14.552265The feeble handful on the adverse part.

Then charge again; if heaven be not opposed

14.572267We cannot lose the day.

We cannot lose the day. On, away.

How fares my lord?

How fares my lord? Even as a man may do

14.612272That dines at such a bloody feast as this.

I hope, my lord, that is no mortal scar.

No matter if it be, the count is cast,

14.642275And in the worst ends but a mortal man.

14.652276Good friends, convey me to the princely Edward,

14.662277That in the crimson bravery of my blood

14.672278I may become him with saluting him;

14.682279I'll smile and tell him that this open scar

14.692280Doth end the harvest of his Audley's war.