Chapter 15

of Battle.

[Alarum. Enter prince Edward and Artois.]

ARTOIS. How fares your grace? are you not shot, my Lord?

PRINCE EDWARD. No, dear Artois; but choked with dust and smoke, And stepped aside for breath and fresher air.

ARTOIS. Breath, then, and to it again: the amazed French Are quite distract with gazing on the crows; And, were our quivers full of shafts again, Your grace should see a glorious day of this:— O, for more arrows, Lord; that’s our want.

PRINCE EDWARD. Courage, Artois! a fig for feathered shafts, When feathered fowls do bandy on our side! What need we fight, and sweat, and keep a coil, When railing crows outscold our adversaries? Up, up, Artois! the ground it self is armed With Fire containing flint; command our bows To hurl away their pretty colored Ew, And to it with stones: away, Artois, away! My soul doth prophecy we win the day.

[Exeunt.]