'Tis certain he is past the river Somme.

Mort de ma vie! Shall a few sprangs of us,

8.31385685The emptying of our fathers' luxury,

8.41388686Outgrow their grafters?

Outgrow their grafters? Normans, bastard Normans.

8.51390Mon dieu! 688And if they pass 1391unfought withal,

8.6689I'll sell my dukedom 1392for a foggy farm

8.71393690In that short-nook isle of England.

Why, whence have they this mettle?

8.91395692Is not their climate raw, foggy and cold,

8.101396693On whom, as in disdain, the sun looks pale?

8.111398694Can barley broth, a drench for swollen jades,

8.121397695Their sodden water, 1399decoct such lively blood?

8.131400696And shall our quick blood, spirited with wine,

8.141401697Seem frosty? Oh, for honor of our names,

8.151402698Let us not hang like frozen icicles

8.161403699Upon our houses' tops while they o' more

8.17Frosty climate 1404700sweat drops of youthful blood.

Constable, dispatch. Send Montjoy forth

8.191443702To know what willing ransom he will give.

8.201444703Son dauphin, you shall stay in Rouen with me.

Not so, I do beseech your majesty.

Well, I say it shall be so.