KING JOHN. Welcome, Bohemian king, and welcome all: This your great kindness I will not forget. Besides your plentiful rewards in Crowns, That from our Treasury ye shall receive, There comes a hare brained Nation, decked in pride, The spoil of whom will be a treble gain. And now my hope is full, my joy complete: At Sea, we are as puissant as the force Of Agamemnon in the Haven of Troy; By land, with Zerxes we compare of strength, Whose soldiers drank up rivers in their thirst; Then Bayardlike, blind, overweaning Ned, To reach at our imperial diadem Is either to be swallowed of the waves, Or hacked a pieces when thou comest ashore.
[Enter Mariner.]
MARINER. Near to the coast I have descried, my Lord, As I was buy in my watchful charge, The proud Armado of king Edward's ships: Which, at the first, far off when I did ken, Seemed as it were a grove of withered pines; But, drawing near, their glorious bright aspect, Their streaming Ensigns, wrought of coloured silk, Like to a meadow full of sundry flowers, Adorns the naked bosom of the earth: Majestical the order of their course, Figuring the horned Circle of the Moon: And on the top gallant of the Admiral And likewise all the handmaids of his train The Arms of England and of France unite Are quartered equally by Heralds' art: Thus, tightly carried with a merry gale, They plough the Ocean hitherward amain.
KING JOHN. Dare he already crop the Fleur de Luce? I hope, the honey being gathered thence, He, with the spider, afterward approached, Shall suck forth deadly venom from the leaves.-- But where's our Navy? how are they prepared To wing them selves against this flight of Ravens?
MARINER. They, having knowledge, brought them by the scouts, Did break from Anchor straight, and, puffed with rage, No otherwise then were their sails with wind, Made forth, as when the empty Eagle flies, To satisfy his hungry griping maw.
KING JOHN. There's for thy news. Return unto thy bark; And if thou scape the bloody stroke of war And do survive the conflict, come again, And let us hear the manner of the fight.
[Exit Mariner.]
Mean space, my Lords, tis best we be dispersed To several places, least they chance to land: First you, my Lord, with your Bohemian Troops, Shall pitch your battailes on the lower hand; My eldest son, the Duke of Normandy, Together with the aide of Muscovites, Shall climb the higher ground another way; Here in the middle cost, betwixt you both, Phillip, my youngest boy, and I will lodge. So, Lors, be gone, and look unto your charge: You stand for France, an Empire fair and large.
[Exeunt.]
Now tell me, Phillip, what is thy concept, Touching the challenge that the English make?
PHILLIP. I say, my Lord, claim Edward what he can, And bring he ne'er so plain a pedigree, Tis you are in the possession of the Crown, And that's the surest point of all the Law: But, were it not, yet ere he should prevail, I'll make a Conduit of my dearest blood, Or chase those straggling upstarts home again.
KING JOHN. Well said, young Phillip! Call for bread and Wine, That we may cheer our stomachs with repast, To look our foes more sternly in the face.
[A Table and Provisions brought in. The battle hard a far off.]
Now is begun the heavy day at Sea: Fight, Frenchmen, fight; be like the field of Bears, When they defend their younglings in the Caves! Stir, angry Nemesis, the happy helm, That, with the sulphur battles of your rage, The English Fleet may be dispersed and sunk.
[Shot.]
PHILLIP. O Father, how this echoing Cannon shot, Like sweet harmony, digests my eats!
KING JOHN. Now, boy, thou hearest what thundering terror tis, To buckle for a kingdom's sovereignty: The earth, with giddy trembling when it shakes, Or when the exhalations of the air Breaks in extremity of lightning flash, Affrights not more than kings, when they dispose To shew the rancor of their high swollen hearts.
[Retreat.]
Retreat is sounded; one side hath the worse; O, if it be the French, sweet fortune, turn; And, in thy turning, change the forward winds, That, with advantage of a favoring sky, Our men may vanquish, and the other fly!
[Enter Mariner.]
My heart misgives:--say, mirror of pale death, To whom belongs the honor of this day? Relate, I pray thee, if thy breath will serve, The sad discourse of this discomfiture.