The sun of heaven, methought, was loath to set,

But stay’d, and made the western welkin blush,

When the English measure backward their own ground

In faint retire. O, bravely came we off,

When with a volley of our needless shot,

After such bloody toil, we bid good night,

And wound our tott’ring colours clearly up,

Last in the field, and almost lords of it!

Where is my prince, the Dauphin?

Here. What news?

The Count Melun is slain; the English lords

By his persuasion are again fall’n off,

And your supply, which you have wish’d so long,

Are cast away and sunk on Goodwin Sands.

Ah, foul shrewd news! Beshrew thy very heart!

I did not think to be so sad tonight

As this hath made me. Who was he that said

King John did fly an hour or two before

The stumbling night did part our weary powers?

Whoever spoke it, it is true, my lord.

Well, keep good quarter and good care tonight.

The day shall not be up so soon as I,

To try the fair adventure of tomorrow.