King. Fie, lords! it slurs our name;—the town is succour'd.
'Twas dull neglect to let them pass: a blot
Upon our English camp; where vigilance
Should be the watch-word. Which way got they in?
Sir W. By sea, as we do learn, my gracious liege?
King. Where was our fleet then? does it ride the ocean
In idle mockery? It should float to awe
These Frenchmen here. How are they stored, my lord?
Harc. Barely, as it should seem. Their crazy vessel,
Driven among the rocks, that skirt the shore,