We do. THE KING. BOURBON. Save him, our number is complete. Sir Oliver of Clisson, unto thee, By virtue of thine office, appertaineth, Thou THE KING. 'Tis our will. THE CONSTABLE. May it please your majesty—my lords, and you! THE KING. What ails my Lord of Burgundy, good uncle? BOURBON. The gout, sweet cousin. May it please your grace To hearken to the Constable. THE CONSTABLE. My lords, If with these luckless rains the Deule be flooded, As there is cause to think it is already, From Armentières to Quesnoy, and the Marque Be also fuller than its wont, what days LORD OF SAIMPI. May it please your grace, I would be bold to ask the Constable Hath not the Lis a source ? SIR LOIS OF SANXERE. Yea, one or more. LORD OF SAIMPI. Why, then it may be cross'd. THE CONSTABLE. My Lord of Saimpi, Surely it may be cross'd, if other ways Present no better hope. My lords, ye all Have voices in the council; speak your minds, SIR AYMENON OF PUMIERS. Higher up, A few leagues south, by Venay and St. Venant, SIR RAOUL OF RANEVAL. Not kept, my lords! why should it? Van den Bosch Were doubtless overjoy'd to see us strike, An English force, for aught we know, the while And dropp'd at Dunkirk. The Flemings on the right, strong towns in front; And so we plunge from clammy slough to slough, With fog and flood around us. SIR LOIS OF SANXERE. Yea, wet-footed. SIR RAOUL OF RANEVAL. What say you? SIR LOIS OF SANXERE. Keep we dry feet. For the love of God, my lords, SIR RAOUL OF RANEVAL. Soft, Sir Lois ; Spare us thy gibes; I've stood more winters' nights SIR LOIS OF SANXERE. I say, my lords, take heed of mists and swamps The English, that are in much strength-at London. And now ye find that in November rain Is wont to fall; ye find that fallen rain Swells rivers and makes floods; whereof advised, I will not go. THE KING. Hold, Sir Lois; SIR LOIS OF SANXERE. I crave your Grace's pardon; I little dream'd you would; you are a man. SIR RAOUL OF RANEVAL. Lois of Sanxere, I ask thee in this presence, THE CONSTABLE. My lords, my lords! I do beseech you to bethink yourselves. Remember where ye are. SIR RAOUL OF RANEVAL (drawing off his glove). Lois of Sanxere [Here TRISTRAM OF LESTOVET, in arranging some parchments, touches the mace, which rolls heavily from the table, and falls close to the feet of SIR RAOUL OF RANEVAL. He starts up. LESTOVET. No hurt, my lord, I hope? Thank God! thank God! Most humbly do I sue to you, my lord, To grant me your forgiveness. SIR RAOUL OF RANEVAL. Nay, 'tis nothing; It might have been a bruise, but Enter an Usher, followed by SIR FLEUREANT OF HEURLÉE. USHER. Please your Grace, Sir Fleureant of Heurlée waits without, Hot from the Flemish camp, which he but left BOURBON. This is an apt arrival; welcome, sir! SIR FLEUREANT. Now we'll see! Please your Grace, The letters patent I sought means to send To Ypres, Ghent, and Bruges; but to the first Sent orders to the Lis for Van den Bosch To split his power, and throw a third to Ypres To fortify Vauclaire; whilst he stood fast, But held himself prepared, if Bruges should rise BOURBON. These are good tidings; yet I deem the Lis THE CONSTABLE. Your Grace is ever just In all your views. |