Kath. Dat is as it shall please le roi mon père.
K. Hen. Nay, it will please him well, Kate; it shall please him, Kate.
Kath. Den it shall also content me.
K. Hen. Upon that I will kiss your hand, and I call you—my queen.
Kath. Laissez, mon seigneur, laissez, laissez.
K. Hen. Then I will kiss your lips, Kate.
Kath. Dat is not be de fashion pour les dames de la France.
K. Hen. O Kate, nice customs curt’sy to great kings. We are the makers of manners, Kate; therefore, patiently, and yielding. Kisses her. You have witchcraft in your lips, Kate: there is more eloquence in a sugar touch of them than in the tongues of the French council; and they should sooner persuade Harry of England than a general petition of monarchs. Trumpets sound. Here comes your father.
The centre gates are thrown open, and
Re-enter the French King and Queen, Burgundy, Bedford, Gloster, Exeter, Westmoreland. The other French and English Lords as before, U.E.R. and L.