• Enter the KING OF FRANCE, the DAUPHIN, the duke of BOURBON, the CONSTABLE of France, and others

    KING OF FRANCE

    'Tis certain he hath passed the river Somme.

    CONSTABLE

    An if he be not fought withal, my lord,
    Let us not live in France. Let us quit all
    And give our vineyards to a barbarous people.

    DAUPHIN

    5 Ô Dieu vivant, shall a few sprays of us,
    The emptying of our fathers' luxury,
    Our scions, put in wild and savage stock,
    Spurt up so suddenly into the clouds
    And overlook their grafters?

    BOURBON

    10Normans, but bastard Normans, Norman bastards!
    Mort de ma vie, if they march along
    Unfought withal, but I will sell my dukedom
    To buy a slobb'ry and a dirty farm
    In that nook-shotten isle of Albion.

    CONSTABLE

    15 Dieu de batailles, where have they this mettle?
    Is not their climate foggy, raw, and dull,
    On whom, as in despite, the sun looks pale,
    Killing their fruit with frowns? Can sodden water,
    A drench for sur-reined jades, their barley broth,
  • The KING OF FRANCE, the DAUPHIN, the duke of BOURBON, and the CONSTABLE of France enter, with others.

    KING OF FRANCE

    He’s certainly crossed the river Somme.

    CONSTABLE

    And if he advances unopposed, my lord, let us abandon France. Let us leave everything and give our vineyards to the barbarous nation.

    DAUPHIN

    God alive! Shall a few offshoots of our nation, born of our father’s lust—our branches grafted to wild and savage trunks—grow to such a height that they look down with contempt on the plants from which they first sprang?

    sprang

    The Dauphin is referring to the Nor man invasion of 1066, in which William the Conqueror and natives of Normandy conquered England.

    BOURBON

    Normans, nothing more than bastard Normans, Norman bastards! I hope I die! If they march along unopposed, I will sell my dukedom for a sodden, filthy farm in that craggy isle of Albion.

    CONSTABLE

    God of battles! Where do they get this spirit? Isn’t their climate foggy, cold, and dark? Doesn’t the sun shine palely down on them, as though in contempt, killing their fruit with frowns? Can boiled water (beer, they call it)—a drink for broken-down horses, heat their cold blood to such a valiant level? And shall our lively blood, quickened by wine, be so frosty? Oh, for the