Lord bishop, set the crown upon his head.

God save King Henry, of that name the Sixth!

Now, Governor of Paris, take your oath,

That you elect no other king but him;

Esteem none friends but such as are his friends,

And none your foes but such as shall pretend

Malicious practices against his state:

This shall ye do, so help you righteous God!

My gracious sovereign, as I rode from Calais,

To haste unto your coronation,

A letter was deliver’d to my hands,

Writ to your Grace from th’ Duke of Burgundy.

Shame to the Duke of Burgundy and thee!

I vow’d, base knight, when I did meet thee next,

To tear the Garter from thy craven’s leg, [_Plucking it off_.]

Which I have done, because unworthily

Thou wast installed in that high degree.

Pardon me, princely Henry, and the rest.

This dastard, at the battle of Patay,

When but in all I was six thousand strong

And that the French were almost ten to one,

Before we met or that a stroke was given,

Like to a trusty squire did run away;

In which assault we lost twelve hundred men;

Myself and divers gentlemen beside

Were there surprised and taken prisoners.

Then judge, great lords, if I have done amiss,

Or whether that such cowards ought to wear

This ornament of knighthood, yea or no?

To say the truth, this fact was infamous

And ill beseeming any common man,

Much more a knight, a captain, and a leader.

When first this Order was ordain’d, my lords,

Knights of the Garter were of noble birth,

Valiant and virtuous, full of haughty courage,

Such as were grown to credit by the wars;

Not fearing death nor shrinking for distress,

But always resolute in most extremes.

He then that is not furnish’d in this sort

Doth but usurp the sacred name of knight,

Profaning this most honourable Order,

And should, if I were worthy to be judge,

Be quite degraded, like a hedge-born swain

That doth presume to boast of gentle blood.

Stain to thy countrymen, thou hear’st thy doom!

Be packing, therefore, thou that wast a knight;

Henceforth we banish thee on pain of death.

And now, my Lord Protector, view the letter

Sent from our uncle, Duke of Burgundy.

What means his Grace, that he hath changed his style?

No more but, plain and bluntly, “To the King”!

Hath he forgot he is his sovereign?

Or doth this churlish superscription

Pretend some alteration in good will?

What’s here? [_Reads_] “I have, upon especial cause,

Moved with compassion of my country’s wrack,

Together with the pitiful complaints

Of such as your oppression feeds upon,

Forsaken your pernicious faction

And join’d with Charles, the rightful King of France.”

O monstrous treachery! Can this be so,

That in alliance, amity, and oaths,

There should be found such false dissembling guile?

What! Doth my uncle Burgundy revolt?

He doth, my lord, and is become your foe.

Is that the worst this letter doth contain?

It is the worst, and all, my lord, he writes.

Why, then, Lord Talbot there shall talk with him

And give him chastisement for this abuse.

How say you, my lord, are you not content?

Content, my liege! Yes, but that I am prevented,

I should have begg’d I might have been employ’d.

Then gather strength and march unto him straight;

Let him perceive how ill we brook his treason,

And what offence it is to flout his friends.

I go, my lord, in heart desiring still

You may behold confusion of your foes.

Grant me the combat, gracious sovereign.

And me, my lord, grant me the combat too.

This is my servant; hear him, noble prince.

And this is mine, sweet Henry, favour him.

Be patient, lords, and give them leave to speak.

Say, gentlemen, what makes you thus exclaim,

And wherefore crave you combat, or with whom?

With him, my lord, for he hath done me wrong.

And I with him, for he hath done me wrong.

What is that wrong whereof you both complain?

First let me know, and then I’ll answer you.

Crossing the sea from England into France,

This fellow here, with envious carping tongue,

Upbraided me about the rose I wear,

Saying the sanguine colour of the leaves

Did represent my master’s blushing cheeks

When stubbornly he did repugn the truth

About a certain question in the law

Argued betwixt the Duke of York and him;

With other vile and ignominious terms.

In confutation of which rude reproach,

And in defence of my lord’s worthiness,

I crave the benefit of law of arms.

And that is my petition, noble lord;

For though he seem with forged quaint conceit

To set a gloss upon his bold intent,

Yet know, my lord, I was provoked by him,

And he first took exceptions at this badge,

Pronouncing that the paleness of this flower

Bewray’d the faintness of my master’s heart.

Will not this malice, Somerset, be left?

Your private grudge, my Lord of York, will out,

Though ne’er so cunningly you smother it.

Good Lord, what madness rules in brainsick men,

When for so slight and frivolous a cause

Such factious emulations shall arise!

Good cousins both, of York and Somerset,

Quiet yourselves, I pray, and be at peace.

Let this dissension first be tried by fight,

And then your Highness shall command a peace.

The quarrel toucheth none but us alone;

Betwixt ourselves let us decide it then.

There is my pledge; accept it, Somerset.

Nay, let it rest where it began at first.

Confirm it so, mine honourable lord.

Confirm it so! Confounded be your strife!

And perish ye, with your audacious prate!

Presumptuous vassals, are you not ashamed

With this immodest clamorous outrage

To trouble and disturb the King and us?

And you, my lords, methinks you do not well

To bear with their perverse objections,

Much less to take occasion from their mouths

To raise a mutiny betwixt yourselves.

Let me persuade you take a better course.

It grieves his Highness. Good my lords, be friends.

Come hither, you that would be combatants:

Henceforth I charge you, as you love our favour,

Quite to forget this quarrel and the cause.

And you, my lords, remember where we are:

In France, amongst a fickle wavering nation;

If they perceive dissension in our looks,

And that within ourselves we disagree,

How will their grudging stomachs be provoked

To willful disobedience, and rebel!

Beside, what infamy will there arise

When foreign princes shall be certified

That for a toy, a thing of no regard,

King Henry’s peers and chief nobility

Destroy’d themselves and lost the realm of France!

O, think upon the conquest of my father,

My tender years, and let us not forgo

That for a trifle that was bought with blood!

Let me be umpire in this doubtful strife.

I see no reason if I wear this rose,

That anyone should therefore be suspicious

I more incline to Somerset than York.

Both are my kinsmen, and I love them both.

As well they may upbraid me with my crown

Because, forsooth, the King of Scots is crown’d.

But your discretions better can persuade

Than I am able to instruct or teach;

And therefore, as we hither came in peace,

So let us still continue peace and love.

Cousin of York, we institute your Grace

To be our Regent in these parts of France;

And, good my Lord of Somerset, unite

Your troops of horsemen with his bands of foot;

And like true subjects, sons of your progenitors,

Go cheerfully together and digest

Your angry choler on your enemies.

Ourself, my Lord Protector, and the rest

After some respite will return to Calais;

From thence to England, where I hope ere long

To be presented, by your victories,

With Charles, Alençon, and that traitorous rout.

My Lord of York, I promise you the King

Prettily, methought, did play the orator.

And so he did; but yet I like it not,

In that he wears the badge of Somerset.

Tush, that was but his fancy; blame him not;

I dare presume, sweet prince, he thought no harm.

An if I wist he did—but let it rest;

Other affairs must now be managed.

Well didst thou, Richard, to suppress thy voice;

For, had the passions of thy heart burst out,

I fear we should have seen decipher’d there

More rancorous spite, more furious raging broils,

Than yet can be imagined or supposed.

But howsoe’er, no simple man that sees

This jarring discord of nobility,

This shouldering of each other in the court,

This factious bandying of their favourites,

But sees it doth presage some ill event.

’Tis much when scepters are in children’s hands;

But more when envy breeds unkind division:

There comes the ruin, there begins confusion.