Enter Gower and Williams
God's will and his pleasure, captain, I beseech you now, come apace to the king: there is more good toward you peradventure than is in your knowledge to dream of.
That's a lie in thy throat. I charge you in his majesty's name, apprehend him: he's a friend of the Duke Alencon's.
Enter Warwick and Gloucester
My Lord of Warwick, here is—praised be God for it! —a most contagious treason come to light, look you, as you shall desire in a summer's day. Here is his majesty.
Enter King Henry and Exeter
My liege, here is a villain and a traitor, that, look your grace, has struck the glove which your majesty is take out of the helmet of Alencon.
My liege, this was my glove; here is the fellow of it; and he that I gave it to in change promised to wear it in his cap: I promised to strike him, if he did: I met this man with my glove in his cap, and I have been as good as my word.
Your majesty hear now, saving your majesty's manhood, what an arrant, rascally, beggarly, lousy knave it is: I hope your majesty is pear me testimony and witness, and will avouchment, that this is the glove of Alencon, that your majesty is give me; in your conscience, now?
Give me thy glove, soldier: look, here is the fellow of it. 'Twas I, indeed, thou promised'st to strike; And thou hast given me most bitter terms.
An please your majesty, let his neck answer for it, if there is any martial law in the world.
All offences, my lord, come from the heart: never came any from mine that might offend your majesty.
Your majesty came not like yourself: you appeared to me but as a common man; witness the night, your garments, your lowliness; and what your highness suffered under that shape, I beseech you take it for your own fault and not mine: for had you been as I took you for, I made no offence; therefore, I beseech your highness, pardon me.
Here, uncle Exeter, fill this glove with crowns, And give it to this fellow. Keep it, fellow; And wear it for an honour in thy cap Till I do challenge it. Give him the crowns: And, captain, you must needs be friends with him.
By this day and this light, the fellow has mettle enough in his belly. Hold, there is twelve pence for you; and I pray you to serve Got, and keep you out of prawls, and prabbles' and quarrels, and dissensions, and, I warrant you, it is the better for you.
It is with a good will; I can tell you, it will serve you to mend your shoes: come, wherefore should you be so pashful? your shoes is not so good: 'tis a good silling, I warrant you, or I will change it.
Enter an English Herald
Charles Duke of Orleans, nephew to the king; John Duke of Bourbon, and Lord Bouciqualt: Of other lords and barons, knights and squires, Full fifteen hundred, besides common men.
This note doth tell me of ten thousand French That in the field lie slain: of princes, in this number, And nobles bearing banners, there lie dead One hundred twenty six: added to these, Of knights, esquires, and gallant gentlemen, Eight thousand and four hundred; of the which, Five hundred were but yesterday dubb'd knights: So that, in these ten thousand they have lost, There are but sixteen hundred mercenaries; The rest are princes, barons, lords, knights, squires, And gentlemen of blood and quality. The names of those their nobles that lie dead: Charles Delabreth, high constable of France; Jaques of Chatillon, admiral of France; The master of the cross-bows, Lord Rambures; Great Master of France, the brave Sir Guichard Dolphin, John Duke of Alencon, Anthony Duke of Brabant, The brother of the Duke of Burgundy, And Edward Duke of Bar: of lusty earls, Grandpre and Roussi, Fauconberg and Foix, Beaumont and Marle, Vaudemont and Lestrale. Here was a royal fellowship of death! Where is the number of our English dead?
Herald shews him another paper
Edward the Duke of York, the Earl of Suffolk, Sir Richard Ketly, Davy Gam, esquire: None else of name; and of all other men But five and twenty. O God, thy arm was here; And not to us, but to thy arm alone, Ascribe we all! When, without stratagem, But in plain shock and even play of battle, Was ever known so great and little loss On one part and on the other? Take it, God, For it is none but thine!
Come, go we in procession to the village. And be it death proclaimed through our host To boast of this or take the praise from God Which is his only.
Do we all holy rites; Let there be sung 'Non nobis' and 'Te Deum;' The dead with charity enclosed in clay: And then to Calais; and to England then: Where ne'er from France arrived more happy men.