THE BEGUE OF VILLAINES.
Sir Constable, some thought
Let us bestow on tidings whence we learn
The fears o' the adverse, and the slide this way
Of Ypres, Ghent, and Bruges.
A larger force the Regent were constrain'd
To keep i' the west; and passing down the Scheldt
By Tournay, we are less opposed.
SIR RAOUL OF RANEVAL.
I say we meet with opposition less
Upon the Scheldt at Tournay.
Turning our faces from these doubting towns,
What can they but fall back?
Methinks, my lords, if turning and backsliding
And lack of loyalty
LESTOVET (to SIR FLEUREANT OF HEURLÉE).
You cannot go, you must not quit the board;
My lords will further question you anon.
Spake you not of the Scheldt? doubtless my
Would hear you upon that.
What say'st thou of the Scheldt?
With my own eyes I have not view'd the Scheldt
Higher than Oudenarde; yet what I know
More sure than common rumour I may tell,
That reach by reach from Elsegem to Kam,
At sundry stations, say Kerckhoven first,
'Twixt Berkhem and Avelghem, where the Ronne
Its tide contributes elbowing Escanaffe,
At Pontespiers and Pecq, and divers points
Betwixt them interposed, strong piles are driven
Deep in the belly of the stream athwart.
Thus neither up nor down can make their way
Boat, raft, nor caravel.
The Scheldt is no purveyor of our victual
Should we proceed by Tournay.
We shall find spears as thick upon the banks
As stakes within the stream.
Who is it now that flinches and postpones ?
I say, once pass'd the Scheldt, and better far
We should confront the Flemish spears; so be it!
We'd give the villains such a taste of France
That thence for evermore Mount Joye St. Denis'
Should be a cry to make their life-blood freeze
And teach rebellion duty.
Sir John de Vien would speak; Sir John de Vien Hath not yet spoken.
SIR JOHN DE VIEN.
Here we lie, my lords,
At Arras still, disputing. I am a man
Of little fruitfulness in words; the days
That we lie here, my lords, I deem ill spent.
Once and again the time of year is told,
That we are in November: whiles we vex
This theme, what follows?-why, December! True,
The time of year is late, my lords; yea truly,
The fall of the year, I say, my lords, November,
Is a late season when it rains, my lords.
I have not, as you know, the gift of speech,
But thus much may a plain man say,-time flies;
The English are a people deft, my lords,
And sudden in the crossing of the seas;
And should we linger here with winter coming,
We were not call'd good men of war, forsooth.
So truly, sirs, my voice, with humbleness,
Is for short counsel; in good truth, my lords-
Dear uncle, what's o'clock ?
Presently, fair cousin.
SIR LOIS OF SANXERE.
Your majesty is of the admiral's mind;
You love short counsel; marry, and of mine;
I love it too; more specially I love it
With mallets at our backs and winter near.
We talk so long that what is said at first
What follows sponges from our memories.
Pass to the vote, my lords, nor waste your breath
In further talk.
My lords, may it please you, ere your votes I gather
That briefly I rehearse what each hath said,
As noted with a hasty pen, or writ
First, my lord constable: he bade you think
What length of way and waters lay between
Ere you could reach the Lis; where when you come
You find no bridge, and on the further bank
The Flemish power: then spake my Lord of Saimpi,
Touching a passage nearer to the springs
By Venay and St. Venant: whereunto
My Lord of Raneval made answer meet,
That though the Lis were fordable above,
Yet in the lands of Cassel and Vertus
There dwelt a dangerous people, sulking boors,
Who, when we straggled, as perforce we must,
Through bye-ways sunder'd by the branching waters,
Should fall upon us, founder'd in the sloughs,
And raise the country round :—thus far, my lords,
Had you proceeded, when the tiding came.
Of Ypres, Ghent, and Bruges upon the turn,
Repentant of their sins and looking back
For their allegiance; with the sequel fair
Of much diminish'd squadrons at Commines.
Then though my lord of Raneval spake well
Of clearance on the Scheldt, through direful need
That now must westward suck the Flemish force,
Yet in abatement came the shrewd account
Of how the Scheldt was grated, gagg'd, jaw-lock'd,
With here a turnpike and with there a turnpike,
And Friesland horses. Said the Knight of Langres,
How shall our victual reach us? To which adds
Sir Hugh of Saimpi, that the banks are kept.
Whereat my Lord of Raneval rejoin'd
That he, as best became him, took no heed,
So it were soon, to whereabouts he faced
The Flemish scum in arms, or on the Scheldt,
Or on the Lis-
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