Let not sloth dim your honours new-begot:
[80] Cropp’d are the flower-de-luces in your arms;
Of England’s coat one half is cut away.
Exe. Were our tears wanting to this funeral,
[♦] These tidings would call forth their flowing tides.
Bed. Me they concern; Regent I am of France.
[85] Give me my steeled coat. I’ll fight for France.
Away with these disgraceful wailing robes!
[♦] Wounds will I lend the French instead of eyes,
To weep their intermissive miseries.