Page 1258 - Shakespeare - Vol. 1

A sort of vagabonds, rascals, and runaways;
A scum of Bretons and base lackey peasants,
Whom their o’er-cloyed country vomits forth
To desperate adventures and assur’d destruction. [320]
You sleeping safe, they bring to you unrest;
You having lands, and bless’d with beauteous wives,
They would restrain the one, distain the other.
And who doth lead them but a paltry fellow.
Long kept in Bretagne at our brother’s cost? [325]
A milksop! One that never in his life
Felt so much cold as over-shoes in snow.
Let’s whip these stragglers o’er the seas again,
Lash hence these overweening rags of France,
These famish’d beggars, weary of their lives - [330]
Who, but for dreaming on this fond exploit,
For want of means, poor rats, had hang’d themselves.
If we be conquer’d, let men conquer us!
And not these bastard Bretons, whom our fathers
Have in their own land beaten, bobb’d, and thump’d, [335]
And in record left them the heirs of shame.
Shall these enjoy our lands? Lie with our wives?
Ravish our daughters?

Drum afar off.
Hark, I hear their drum.
Fight, gentlemen of England! Fight, bold yeomen!
Draw, archers, draw your arrows to the head! [340]
Spur your proud horses hard, and ride in blood!
Amaze the welkin with your broken staves!

Enter a Messenger.

What says Lord Stanley? Will he bring his power?

MESSENGER

My lord, he doth deny to come.

KING RICHARD

Off with his son George’s head! [345]

NORFOLK