Poitou. Fields near Poitiers. A part of the field of battle.
(Prince Edward; Artois)
Artois and Prince Edward meet up in the middle of battle. The English arrows have done great damage to the French, but the archers are running out. The Prince dismisses Artois wish for more, and encourages his men to throw aside their bows and fight the French with stones. (17 lines)
Alarum. Enter Prince Edward and Artois.
How fares your grace? Are you not shot, my lord?
No, dear Artois; but choked with dust and smoke,
And stepped aside for breath and fresher air.
Breath, then, and to it again: the amazed French
Are quite distract with gazing on the crows;
And, were our quivers full of shafts again,
Your grace should see a glorious day of this:—
O, for more arrows, lord; that’s our want.
Courage, Artois! A fig for feather’d shafts,
When feather’d fowls do bandy on our side.
What need we fight, and sweat, and keep a coil,
When railing crows outscold our adversaries?
Up, up, Artois! The ground itself is armed
With fire containing flint; command our bows
To hurl away their pretty colore’d yew,
And to it with stones: away, Artois, away!
My soul doth prophecy we win the day.