The quarrel that I have requires no arms
But these of mine: and these shall meet my foe
In a deep march of penetrable groans;
My eyes shall be my arrows, and my sighs
Shall serve me as the vantage of the wind,
To whirl away my sweetest artillery.
Ah, but, alas, she wins the sun of me,
For that is she her self, and thence it comes
That Poets term the wanton warrior blind;
But love hath eyes as judgement to his steps,
Till too much loved glory dazzles them.—
[Enter Lodowick.]
How now?
LODOWICK.
My liege, the drum that stroke the lusty march,
Stands with Prince Edward, your thrice valiant son.
[Enter Prince Edward.]
KING EDWARD.
I see the boy; oh, how his mother’s face,
Modeled in his, corrects my strayed desire,
And rates my heart, and chides my thievish eye,
Who, being rich enough in seeing her,
Yet seeks elsewhere: and basest theft is that
Which cannot cloak it self on poverty.—
Now, boy, what news?
PRINCE EDWARD.
I have assembled, my dear Lord and father,
The choicest buds of all our English blood
For our affairs in France; and here we come
To take direction from your majesty.
KING EDWARD.
Still do I see in him delineate
His mother’s visage; those his eyes are hers,
Who, looking wistely on me, make me blush:
For faults against themselves give evidence;
Lust is fire, and men like lanthornes show
Light lust within them selves, even through them selves.
Away, loose silks of wavering vanity!
Shall the large limit of fair Brittain
By me be overthrown, and shall I not
Master this little mansion of my self?
Give me an Armor of eternal steel!
I go to conquer kings; and shall I not then
Subdue my self? and be my enemy’s friend?
It must not be.—Come, boy, forward, advance!
Let’s with our colours sweet the Air of France.
[Enter Lodowick.]
LODOWICK.
My liege, the Countess with a smiling cheer
Desires access unto your Majesty.