Chapter XIV: Act IV: SCENE VII. The same. Another Part of

the Field of Battle.

[Alarum. Enter King John.]

KING JOHN. Our multitudes are in themselves confounded, Dismayed, and distraught; swift starting fear Hath buzzed a cold dismay through all our army, And every petty disadvantage prompts The fear possessed abject soul to fly. My self, whose spirit is steel to their dull lead, What with recalling of the prophecy, And that our native stones from English arms Rebel against us, find myself attainted With strong surprise of weak and yielding fear.

[Enter Charles.]

CHARLES. Fly, father, fly! the French do kill the French, Some that would stand let drive at some that fly; Our drums strike nothing but discouragement, Our trumpets sound dishonor and retire; The spirit of fear, that feareth nought but death, Cowardly works confusion on it self.

[Enter Phillip.]

PHILLIP. Pluck out your eyes, and see not this day’s shame! An arm hath beat an army; one poor David Hath with a stone foiled twenty stout Goliahs; Some twenty naked starvelings with small flints, Hath driven back a puissant host of men, Arrayed and fenced in all accomplements.

KING JOHN. Mordieu, they quait at us, and kill us up; No less than forty thousand wicked elders Have forty lean slaves this day stoned to death.

CHARLES. O, that I were some other countryman! This day hath set derision on the French, And all the world will blurt and scorn at us.

KING JOHN. What, is there no hope left?

PHILLIP. No hope, but death, to bury up our shame.

KING JOHN. Make up once more with me; the twentieth part Of those that live, are men inow to quail The feeble handful on the adverse part.

CHARLES. Then charge again: if heaven be not opposed, We cannot lose the day.

KING JOHN. On, away!

[Exeunt.]

ACT IV. SCENE VIII. The same. Another Part of the Field of Battle.

[Enter Audley, wounded, & rescued by two squires.]

ESQUIRE. How fares my Lord?

AUDLEY. Even as a man may do, That dines at such a bloody feast as this.

ESQUIRE. I hope, my Lord, that is no mortal scar.

AUDLEY. No matter, if it be; the count is cast, And, in the worst, ends but a mortal man. Good friends, convey me to the princely Edward, That in the crimson bravery of my blood I may become him with saluting him. I’ll smile, and tell him, that this open scar Doth end the harvest of his Audley’s war.

[Exeunt.]