Rod. My Lord of Burbon, ye are more hot then wise.
Bur. Rodorick, me thinkes you are very peremptory.
Rod. It is in zeale of the generall good.
Go to your Tent, refresh your unscorcht[144] lymmes;
There draw your battels modell, and as soone
As the coole winds have fand the burning Sunne
And made it tractable for travaylers,
Arme you and mount upon your barbed Steed,
Lead foorth your Souldiers and in good array
Charge bravely on the Army of our foe.
Lew. The Duke of Orleance hath counseld well.
Ile in and recreate me in my tent.
Farewell, my Lord: when you resolve to fight,
Proclayme your meaning by a Canons mouth
And with a volley I will answere you.
[Exeunt Lewes and Flauuders.
Bur. If you will needs retyre, farewell, my Lord.
Ha, Rodoricke, are not we fine Polyticians
That have so quaintly wrought the king of Fraunce
Unto our faction that he threatens warre
Against the almost reconcilde Navar?
Rod. But this is nothing to the actes weele do.
Come, come, my Lord, you trifle time with words:
Sit downe, sit downe, and make your warlike plot.—
But wherefore stand these murderous Glaves so nye?
Phil.—Touch them not, Roderick; prythee let them stand.
Bur. Some paper, pen, and incke.
Enter Peter.