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80

There is not work enough for all our hands;

Scarce blood enough in all their sickly veins

To give each naked curtal-axe a stain,

That our French gallants shall to-day draw out,

And sheathe for lack of sport: let us but blow on them,

The vapour of our valour will o'erturn them.

'Tis positive 'gainst all exceptions, lords,

That our superfluous lackeys and our peasants,

Who in unnecessary action swarm

About our squares of battle, were enow

To purge this field of such a hilding foe,

Though we upon this mountain's basis by

Took stand for idle speculation:

But that our honours must not. What's to say?

A very little little let us do,

And all is done. Then let the trumpets sound

The tucket sonance and the note to mount:

For our approach shall so much dare the field,

That England shall couch down in fear and yield.

Grand. Why do you stay so long, my lords of France?

Yon island carrions desperate of their bones,

Ill-favour'dly become the morning field:

Their ragged curtains poorly are let loose,

And our air shakes them passing scornfully:

Big Mars seems bankrupt in their beggar'd host,

And faintly through a rusty beaver peeps:

The horsemen sit like fixed candlesticks,

With torch-staves in their hand; and their poor jades

 21 curtal-axe: long curved sword

29 hilding: base

31 speculation: looking-on

35 tucket sonance: preliminary notes

36 dare; cf. n.

37 couch: crouch

41 curtains: banners

44 beaver: visor of the helmet 