Why, how now!—how is this!—my lord of Bourbon!
If we mistake not, 'tis the sword of office
Which graces still your baldrick;—with your leave,
We'll borrow it of you.
BOURBON (starting up.)
Ay, madam, 'tis the sword
You buckled on with your own hand, the day
You sent me forth to conquer in your cause;
And there it is;—(breaks the sword)—take it—and with it all
Th' allegiance that I owe to France; ay take it;