ARTOIS.
Rescue, king Edward! rescue for thy son!
KING EDWARD.
Rescue, Artois? what, is he prisoner,
Or by violence fell beside his horse?
ARTOIS.
Neither, my Lord: but narrowly beset
With turning Frenchmen, whom he did pursue,
As tis impossible that he should scape,
Except your highness presently descend.
KING EDWARD.
Tut, let him fight; we gave him arms to day,
And he is laboring for a knighthood, man.
[Enter Derby.]
DARBY.
The Prince, my Lord, the Prince! oh, succour him!
He’s close incompast with a world of odds!
KING EDWARD.
Then will he win a world of honor too,
If he by valour can redeem him thence;
If not, what remedy? we have more sons
Than one, to comfort our declining age.
[Enter Audley.]
Renowned Edward, give me leave, I pray,
To lead my soldiers where I may relieve
Your Grace’s son, in danger to be slain.
The snares of French, like Emmets on a bank,
Muster about him; whilest he, Lion like,
Intangled in the net of their assaults,
Franticly wrends, and bites the woven toil;
But all in vain, he cannot free him self.
KING EDWARD.
Audley, content; I will not have a man,
On pain of death, sent forth to succour him:
This is the day, ordained by destiny,
To season his courage with those grievous thoughts,
That, if he breaketh out, Nestor’s years on earth
Will make him savor still of this exploit.