Peace to this meeting, wherefore we are met!

Unto our brother France, and to our sister,

Health and fair time of day; joy and good wishes

To our most fair and princely cousin Katharine;

And, as a branch and member of this royalty,

By whom this great assembly is contriv’d,

We do salute you, Duke of Burgundy;

And, princes French, and peers, health to you all!

Right joyous are we to behold your face,

Most worthy brother England; fairly met!

So are you, princes English, every one.

So happy be the issue, brother England,

Of this good day and of this gracious meeting

As we are now glad to behold your eyes;

Your eyes, which hitherto have borne in them

Against the French that met them in their bent

The fatal balls of murdering basilisks.

The venom of such looks, we fairly hope,

Have lost their quality; and that this day

Shall change all griefs and quarrels into love.

To cry amen to that, thus we appear.

You English princes all, I do salute you.

My duty to you both, on equal love,

Great Kings of France and England! That I have labour’d,

With all my wits, my pains, and strong endeavours,

To bring your most imperial Majesties

Unto this bar and royal interview,

Your mightiness on both parts best can witness.

Since then my office hath so far prevail’d

That, face to face and royal eye to eye,

You have congreeted, let it not disgrace me

If I demand, before this royal view,

What rub or what impediment there is,

Why that the naked, poor, and mangled Peace,

Dear nurse of arts, plenties, and joyful births,

Should not in this best garden of the world,

Our fertile France, put up her lovely visage?

Alas, she hath from France too long been chas’d,

And all her husbandry doth lie on heaps,

Corrupting in it own fertility.

Her vine, the merry cheerer of the heart,

Unpruned dies; her hedges even-pleach’d,

Like prisoners wildly overgrown with hair,

Put forth disorder’d twigs; her fallow leas

The darnel, hemlock, and rank fumitory,

Doth root upon, while that the coulter rusts

That should deracinate such savagery;

The even mead, that erst brought sweetly forth

The freckled cowslip, burnet, and green clover,

Wanting the scythe, all uncorrected, rank,

Conceives by idleness, and nothing teems

But hateful docks, rough thistles, kecksies, burs,

Losing both beauty and utility;

And as our vineyards, fallows, meads, and hedges,

Defective in their natures, grow to wildness.

Even so our houses and ourselves and children

Have lost, or do not learn for want of time,

The sciences that should become our country;

But grow like savages,—as soldiers will

That nothing do but meditate on blood,—

To swearing and stern looks, diffus’d attire,

And everything that seems unnatural.

Which to reduce into our former favour

You are assembled; and my speech entreats

That I may know the let, why gentle Peace

Should not expel these inconveniences

And bless us with her former qualities.

If, Duke of Burgundy, you would the peace,

Whose want gives growth to the imperfections

Which you have cited, you must buy that peace

With full accord to all our just demands;

Whose tenours and particular effects

You have enschedul’d briefly in your hands.

The King hath heard them; to the which as yet

There is no answer made.

Well, then, the peace,

Which you before so urg’d, lies in his answer.

I have but with a cursorary eye

O’erglanc’d the articles. Pleaseth your Grace

To appoint some of your council presently

To sit with us once more, with better heed

To re-survey them, we will suddenly

Pass our accept and peremptory answer.

Brother, we shall. Go, uncle Exeter,

And brother Clarence, and you, brother Gloucester,

Warwick, and Huntington, go with the King;

And take with you free power to ratify,

Augment, or alter, as your wisdoms best

Shall see advantageable for our dignity,

Anything in or out of our demands,

And we’ll consign thereto. Will you, fair sister,

Go with the princes, or stay here with us?

Our gracious brother, I will go with them.

Haply a woman’s voice may do some good,

When articles too nicely urg’d be stood on.

Yet leave our cousin Katharine here with us:

She is our capital demand, compris’d

Within the fore-rank of our articles.

She hath good leave.

Fair Katharine, and most fair,

Will you vouchsafe to teach a soldier terms

Such as will enter at a lady’s ear

And plead his love-suit to her gentle heart?

Your Majesty shall mock me; I cannot speak your England.

O fair Katharine, if you will love me soundly with your French heart, I

will be glad to hear you confess it brokenly with your English tongue.

Do you like me, Kate?

_Pardonnez-moi_, I cannot tell wat is “like me.”

An angel is like you, Kate, and you are like an angel.

I said so, dear Katharine; and I must not blush to affirm it.

What says she, fair one? That the tongues of men are full of deceits?

_Oui_, dat de tongues of de mans is be full of deceits: dat is de

Princess.

The Princess is the better Englishwoman. I’ faith, Kate, my wooing is

fit for thy understanding. I am glad thou canst speak no better

English; for if thou couldst, thou wouldst find me such a plain king

that thou wouldst think I had sold my farm to buy my crown. I know no

ways to mince it in love, but directly to say, “I love you”; then if

you urge me farther than to say, “Do you in faith?” I wear out my suit.

Give me your answer; i’ faith, do; and so clap hands and a bargain. How

say you, lady?

_Sauf votre honneur_, me understand well.

Marry, if you would put me to verses, or to dance for your sake, Kate,

why you undid me; for the one, I have neither words nor measure, and

for the other I have no strength in measure, yet a reasonable measure

in strength. If I could win a lady at leap-frog, or by vaulting into my

saddle with my armour on my back, under the correction of bragging be

it spoken, I should quickly leap into a wife. Or if I might buffet for

my love, or bound my horse for her favours, I could lay on like a

butcher and sit like a jack-an-apes, never off. But, before God, Kate,

I cannot look greenly, nor gasp out my eloquence, nor I have no cunning

in protestation; only downright oaths, which I never use till urg’d,

nor never break for urging. If thou canst love a fellow of this temper,

Kate, whose face is not worth sunburning, that never looks in his glass

for love of anything he sees there, let thine eye be thy cook. I speak

to thee plain soldier. If thou canst love me for this, take me; if not,

to say to thee that I shall die, is true; but for thy love, by the

Lord, no; yet I love thee too. And while thou liv’st, dear Kate, take a

fellow of plain and uncoined constancy; for he perforce must do thee

right, because he hath not the gift to woo in other places; for these

fellows of infinite tongue, that can rhyme themselves into ladies’

favours, they do always reason themselves out again. What! a speaker is

but a prater: a rhyme is but a ballad. A good leg will fall; a straight

back will stoop; a black beard will turn white; a curl’d pate will grow

bald; a fair face will wither; a full eye will wax hollow; but a good

heart, Kate, is the sun and the moon; or rather the sun and not the

moon; for it shines bright and never changes, but keeps his course

truly. If thou would have such a one, take me; and take me, take a

soldier; take a soldier, take a king. And what say’st thou then to my

love? Speak, my fair, and fairly, I pray thee.

Is it possible dat I should love de enemy of France?

No; it is not possible you should love the enemy of France, Kate; but,

in loving me, you should love the friend of France; for I love France

so well that I will not part with a village of it, I will have it all

mine; and, Kate, when France is mine and I am yours, then yours is

France and you are mine.

I cannot tell wat is dat.

No, Kate? I will tell thee in French; which I am sure will hang upon my

tongue like a new-married wife about her husband’s neck, hardly to be

shook off. _Je quand sur le possession de France, et quand vous avez le

possession de moi_,—let me see, what then? Saint Denis be my

speed!—_donc votre est France, et vous êtes mienne._ It is as easy for

me, Kate, to conquer the kingdom as to speak so much more French. I

shall never move thee in French, unless it be to laugh at me.

_Sauf votre honneur, le français que vous parlez, il est meilleur que

l’anglais lequel je parle._

No, faith, is’t not, Kate; but thy speaking of my tongue, and I thine,

most truly-falsely, must needs be granted to be much at one. But, Kate,

dost thou understand thus much English: canst thou love me?

I cannot tell.

Can any of your neighbours tell, Kate? I’ll ask them. Come, I know thou

lovest me; and at night, when you come into your closet, you’ll

question this gentlewoman about me; and I know, Kate, you will to her

dispraise those parts in me that you love with your heart. But, good

Kate, mock me mercifully; the rather, gentle princess, because I love

thee cruelly. If ever thou beest mine, Kate, as I have a saving faith

within me tells me thou shalt, I get thee with scambling, and thou must

therefore needs prove a good soldier-breeder. Shall not thou and I,

between Saint Denis and Saint George, compound a boy, half French, half

English, that shall go to Constantinople and take the Turk by the

beard? Shall we not? What say’st thou, my fair flower-de-luce?

I do not know dat.

No; ’tis hereafter to know, but now to promise. Do but now promise,

Kate, you will endeavour for your French part of such a boy; and for my

English moiety, take the word of a king and a bachelor. How answer you,

Your Majestee ’ave _fausse_ French enough to deceive de most _sage

demoiselle_ dat is _en France_.

Now, fie upon my false French! By mine honour, in true English, I love

thee, Kate; by which honour I dare not swear thou lovest me; yet my

blood begins to flatter me that thou dost, notwithstanding the poor and

untempering effect of my visage. Now, beshrew my father’s ambition! He

was thinking of civil wars when he got me; therefore was I created with

a stubborn outside, with an aspect of iron, that, when I come to woo

ladies, I fright them. But, in faith, Kate, the elder I wax, the better

I shall appear. My comfort is, that old age, that ill layer up of

beauty, can do no more spoil upon my face. Thou hast me, if thou hast

me, at the worst; and thou shalt wear me, if thou wear me, better and

better; and therefore tell me, most fair Katharine, will you have me?

Put off your maiden blushes; avouch the thoughts of your heart with the

looks of an empress; take me by the hand, and say, Harry of England, I

am thine; which word thou shalt no sooner bless mine ear withal, but I

will tell thee aloud, England is thine, Ireland is thine, France is

thine, and Henry Plantagenet is thine; who, though I speak it before

his face, if he be not fellow with the best king, thou shalt find the

best king of good fellows. Come, your answer in broken music; for thy

voice is music and thy English broken; therefore, queen of all,

Katharine, break thy mind to me in broken English. Wilt thou have me?

Dat is as it shall please _le roi mon père_.

Nay, it will please him well, Kate; it shall please him, Kate.

Den it sall also content me.

Upon that I kiss your hand, and call you my queen.

_Laissez, mon seigneur, laissez, laissez! Ma foi, je ne veux point que

vous abaissiez votre grandeur en baisant la main d’une—Notre

Seigneur!—indigne serviteur. Excusez-moi, je vous supplie, mon

très-puissant seigneur._

Then I will kiss your lips, Kate.

_Les dames et demoiselles pour être baisées devant leurs noces, il

n’est pas la coutume de France._

Madame my interpreter, what says she?

Dat it is not be de fashion _pour les_ ladies of France,—I cannot tell

wat is _baiser en_ Anglish.

To kiss.

Your Majestee _entend_ bettre _que moi_.

It is not a fashion for the maids in France to kiss before they are

married, would she say?

O Kate, nice customs curtsy to great kings. Dear Kate, you and I cannot

be confined within the weak list of a country’s fashion. We are the

makers of manners, Kate; and the liberty that follows our places stops

the mouth of all find-faults, as I will do yours, for upholding the

nice fashion of your country in denying me a kiss; therefore, patiently

and yielding. [_Kissing her._] You have witchcraft in your lips, Kate;

there is more eloquence in a sugar touch of them than in the tongues of

the French council; and they should sooner persuade Harry of England

than a general petition of monarchs. Here comes your father.

God save your Majesty! My royal cousin, teach you our princess English?

I would have her learn, my fair cousin, how perfectly I love her; and

that is good English.

Is she not apt?

Our tongue is rough, coz, and my condition is not smooth; so that,

having neither the voice nor the heart of flattery about me, I cannot

so conjure up the spirit of love in her, that he will appear in his

true likeness.

Pardon the frankness of my mirth, if I answer you for that. If you

would conjure in her, you must make a circle; if conjure up Love in her

in his true likeness, he must appear naked and blind. Can you blame her

then, being a maid yet ros’d over with the virgin crimson of modesty,

if she deny the appearance of a naked blind boy in her naked seeing

self? It were, my lord, a hard condition for a maid to consign to.

Yet they do wink and yield, as love is blind and enforces.

They are then excus’d, my lord, when they see not what they do.

Then, good my lord, teach your cousin to consent winking.

I will wink on her to consent, my lord, if you will teach her to know

my meaning; for maids, well summer’d and warm kept, are like flies at

Bartholomew-tide, blind, though they have their eyes; and then they

will endure handling, which before would not abide looking on.

This moral ties me over to time and a hot summer; and so I shall catch

the fly, your cousin, in the latter end, and she must be blind too.

As love is, my lord, before it loves.

It is so; and you may, some of you, thank love for my blindness, who

cannot see many a fair French city for one fair French maid that stands

in my way.

Yes, my lord, you see them perspectively, the cities turn’d into a

maid; for they are all girdled with maiden walls that no war hath

Shall Kate be my wife?

So please you.

I am content, so the maiden cities you talk of may wait on her; so the

maid that stood in the way for my wish shall show me the way to my

will.

We have consented to all terms of reason.

Is’t so, my lords of England?

The king hath granted every article;

His daughter first, and then in sequel all,

According to their firm proposed natures.

Only he hath not yet subscribed this: where your Majesty demands, that

the King of France, having any occasion to write for matter of grant,

shall name your Highness in this form and with this addition, in

French, _Notre très-cher fils Henri, Roi d’Angleterre, Héritier de

France_; and thus in Latin, _Praeclarissimus filius noster Henricus,

rex Angliae et haeres Franciae._

Nor this I have not, brother, so denied

But our request shall make me let it pass.

I pray you then, in love and dear alliance,

Let that one article rank with the rest;

And thereupon give me your daughter.

Take her, fair son, and from her blood raise up

Issue to me; that the contending kingdoms

Of France and England, whose very shores look pale

With envy of each other’s happiness,

May cease their hatred; and this dear conjunction

Plant neighbourhood and Christian-like accord

In their sweet bosoms, that never war advance

His bleeding sword ’twixt England and fair France.

Amen!

Now, welcome, Kate; and bear me witness all,

That here I kiss her as my sovereign queen.

God, the best maker of all marriages,

Combine your hearts in one, your realms in one!

As man and wife, being two, are one in love,

So be there ’twixt your kingdoms such a spousal,

That never may ill office, or fell jealousy,

Which troubles oft the bed of blessed marriage,

Thrust in between the paction of these kingdoms,

To make divorce of their incorporate league;

That English may as French, French Englishmen,

Receive each other. God speak this Amen!

Amen!

Prepare we for our marriage; on which day,

My Lord of Burgundy, we’ll take your oath,

And all the peers’, for surety of our leagues,

Then shall I swear to Kate, and you to me;

And may our oaths well kept and prosperous be!

Thus far, with rough and all-unable pen,

Our bending author hath pursu’d the story,

In little room confining mighty men,

Mangling by starts the full course of their glory.

Small time, but in that small most greatly lived

This star of England. Fortune made his sword,

By which the world’s best garden he achieved,

And of it left his son imperial lord.

Henry the Sixth, in infant bands crown’d King

Of France and England, did this king succeed;

Whose state so many had the managing,

That they lost France and made his England bleed:

Which oft our stage hath shown; and, for their sake,

In your fair minds let this acceptance take.