’Tis certain he hath pass’d the river Somme.
It is certain he has crossed the river Somme.
No doubt about it—he's already crossed the Somme.
hes crossed the somme
And if he be not fought withal, my lord,
Let us not live in France; let us quit all
And give our vineyards to a barbarous people.
And if he is not fought with here, my lord, Let us not live in France; let us quit everything And give our vineyards to a barbarous people.
And if we don't fight him here, sir, I say we shouldn't stay in France; let's just leave and hand our vineyards over to savages.
fight him now or leave france forever
_O Dieu vivant_! shall a few sprays of us,
The emptying of our fathers’ luxury,
Our scions put in wild and savage stock,
Spirt up so suddenly into the clouds,
And overlook their grafters?
By the living God! Shall a few sprigs sprung from us, The overflow of our ancestors' lust, Our own cuttings grafted onto wild and savage rootstock, Shoot up so suddenly into the sky And look down on the very ones who planted them?
Good God! These English are just a few stray shoots off our family tree, the leftovers of our forefathers' fooling around, grafted onto some wild, barbaric stock. And now they've suddenly sprouted up to the clouds and think they can look down on us, the ones who planted them?
omg the english are OUR offshoots bastard branches of our own blood and now they think they're above us??
The French court scene is a masterclass in competitive rhetoric. Each speaker tries to out-express the others' outrage — the Constable will give up France, Bourbon will sell his dukedom, the Dauphin says the French women are defecting to the English, Bourbon says the women are calling them dancers. The competitive escalation reveals something important: these men care more about performing outrage than actually engaging with the military problem. The French King's quiet roll call of names at the end — actually ordering people to do something — is a different register entirely. He has been listening to the speechifying and is now cutting through it with action. The contrast is subtle but pointed.
Normans, but bastard Normans, Norman bastards!
_Mort de ma vie_, if they march along
Unfought withal, but I will sell my dukedom,
To buy a slobbery and a dirty farm
In that nook-shotten isle of Albion.
Normans, but bastard Normans, Norman bastards! As God is my witness, if they march without a fight from us, I will sell my dukedom to buy a slobbery and dirty farm in that remote, cramped isle of Albion.
Normans, but bastard Normans, you pathetic Norman bastards! By my life, if they march through here without a fight from us, I'll sell my dukedom to buy some slobbery, worthless farm in that cramped, remote island of England.
fake normans! if they march w/o us fighting back im selling my dukedom 4 a gross farm in england
_Dieu de batailles_, where have they this mettle?
Is not their climate foggy, raw, and dull,
On whom, as in despite, the sun looks pale,
Killing their fruit with frowns? Can sodden water,
A drench for sur-rein’d jades, their barley-broth,
Decoct their cold blood to such valiant heat?
And shall our quick blood, spirited with wine,
Seem frosty? O, for honour of our land,
Let us not hang like roping icicles
Upon our houses’ thatch, whiles a more frosty people
Sweat drops of gallant youth in our rich fields!
Poor we may call them in their native lords.
God of battles, where did they get this courage? Is not their climate foggy, raw, and gloomy, On which, as if in scorn, the sun looks pale, Killing their crops with frowns? Can weak water, A drink for exhausted horses, their barley broth, Heat up their cold blood to such fierce passion? And shall our hot blood, spirited with wine, Look weak? Oh, for the honor of our land, Let us not hang like frozen icicles Upon our houses' roofs, while a gloomier people Sweat drops of youthful vigor in our rich fields! We may call them poor in their native lords.
God of war, how did these guys get any guts at all? Doesn't their country have lousy, raw, miserable weather, where the sun barely shines and kills their crops? Can cheap water—the kind you give to worn-out horses, their cheap barley soup—really heat their sluggish blood to such fierce levels? And yet our passionate, wine-fueled blood would look pale? For our country's sake, don't let us hang like icicles while these gloomy people sweat out young energy all over our fields! We can call them poor foreigners.
theyre from a terrible place no sun no heat their blood is cold but ours is passionate
By faith and honour,
Our madams mock at us, and plainly say
Our mettle is bred out, and they will give
Their bodies to the lust of English youth
To new-store France with bastard warriors.
By faith and honor, Our women mock us, and plainly say Our manhood is exhausted, and they will give Their bodies to the desire of English youth To repopulate France with bastard warriors.
I swear it's true—our own wives are making fun of us, saying straight up that we've lost our manhood, and they'll sleep with English soldiers to produce a new generation of bastard warriors.
women mock us theyll have english babies with english men
They bid us to the English dancing-schools,
And teach lavoltas high, and swift corantos;
Saying our grace is only in our heels,
And that we are most lofty runaways.
They invite us to English dancing schools, And teach us the high volta and swift corantos; Saying our talent is only in our feet, And that we are most cowardly runaways.
They're telling us to go to English dance schools, teaching us their fancy dances; basically saying the only thing we're good at is dancing, and that we're just chicken cowards.
theyre mocking us as dancers and cowards
Where is Montjoy the herald? Speed him hence.
Let him greet England with our sharp defiance.
Up, princes! and, with spirit of honour edged
More sharper than your swords, hie to the field!
Charles Delabreth, High Constable of France;
You Dukes of Orleans, Bourbon, and of Berry,
Alençon, Brabant, Bar, and Burgundy;
Jacques Chatillon, Rambures, Vaudemont,
Beaumont, Grandpré, Roussi, and Fauconbridge,
Foix, Lestrale, Boucicault, and Charolois;
High dukes, great princes, barons, lords, and knights,
For your great seats now quit you of great shames.
Bar Harry England, that sweeps through our land
With pennons painted in the blood of Harfleur.
Rush on his host, as doth the melted snow
Upon the valleys, whose low vassal seat
The Alps doth spit and void his rheum upon.
Go down upon him, you have power enough,
And in a captive chariot into Rouen
Bring him our prisoner.
Where is Montjoy the herald? Get him moving. Let him greet England with our fierce challenge. Rise up, princes! and with a spirit of honor sharper Than your swords, hurry to the field! Charles Delabreth, High Constable of France; You Dukes of Orleans, Bourbon, and Berry, Alencon, Brabant, Bar, and Burgundy; Jacques Chatillon, Rambures, Vaudemont, Beaumont, Grandpré, Roussi, and Fauconbridge, Foix, Lestrale, Boucicault, and Charolois; High dukes, great princes, barons, lords, and knights, For the sake of your great positions, clear yourselves of shame. Stop Harry of England, who sweeps through our land With banners painted in the blood of Harfleur. Rush at his army, like melted snow Sweeping down into valleys, which the Alps Spit and pour their filth upon. Go down upon him—you have power enough— And in chains, as a prisoner, Bring him to Rouen as our captive.
Where's the herald Montjoy? Send him now. Let him deliver our defiant message to England. Come on, princes! Get up and charge into battle with honor—let your honor be sharper than any sword! Charles Delabreth, our High Constable; you Dukes of Orleans, Bourbon, Berry, Alencon, Brabant, Bar, and Burgundy; and all you other nobles—Chatillon, Rambures, Vaudemont, Beaumont, Grandpré, Roussi, Fauconbridge, Foix, Lestrale, Boucicault, Charolois! You great dukes and princes and barons and lords—for your own honor and reputation, rid yourselves of this shame. Stop Henry and his invading army—they're sweeping through with blood all over their banners from Harfleur. Charge at them like an avalanche, like melted snow rushing down a mountain valley, the way the Alps spit their filth. You've got the numbers. Just take him alive as a prisoner and bring him to Rouen.
send montjoy order charge stop henry capture him alive ruin him
The French King's decision to keep his son in Rouen is never explained. Several readings are possible. The practical: perhaps the king has already assessed that the confrontation with Henry is riskier than the Constable believes, and he wants his heir out of danger. The political: the Dauphin is impulsive and over-confident; letting him command at this battle might produce a worse outcome than experienced generals. The personal: a father protecting his son. The result, whatever the motive, is that the Dauphin sits out the most important battle in his father's reign — a shame that the camp scene in 3-7 will dramatize in detail.
This becomes the great.
Sorry am I his numbers are so few,
His soldiers sick and famish’d in their march;
For I am sure, when he shall see our army,
He’ll drop his heart into the sink of fear
And for achievement offer us his ransom.
This becomes a great leader. I am sorry his numbers are so small, His soldiers sick and starving on their march; Because I am sure, when he sees our army, He will lose his heart completely from fear And will offer us his ransom to escape.
That's what a great leader sounds like. I feel bad for him though—he's got so few troops, and his soldiers are sick and starving from marching. But honestly, when he sees our massive army, he'll be totally terrified and just offer us a ransom to leave him alone.
hes outnumbered sick troops will surrender
Therefore, Lord Constable, haste on Montjoy,
And let him say to England that we send
To know what willing ransom he will give.
Prince Dauphin, you shall stay with us in Rouen.
Therefore, Lord Constable, hurry with Montjoy, And tell him to ask England what ransom he will willingly pay. Prince Dauphin, you will stay with us in Rouen.
So Constable, go with Montjoy right now, and tell him to ask Henry what ransom he's willing to pay. As for you, Prince Dauphin, you're staying here in Rouen with us.
montjoy go demand ransom dauphin stay
Not so, I do beseech your Majesty.
No, I beg your Majesty, please let me go.
No, your Majesty, I'm begging you—please let me fight.
no please let me fight
Be patient, for you shall remain with us.
Now forth, Lord Constable and princes all,
And quickly bring us word of England’s fall.
Be patient, because you will remain with us. Now go forth, Lord Constable and all princes, And quickly bring us word of England's defeat.
Be patient—you're staying here, that's final. Now everybody else get going, Constable and all you princes, and get back here quick with news that England's been defeated.
youre staying go capture henry hurry back
The Reckoning
If 3-4 was a comedy scene showing us French private life, 3-5 shows us French political life — and it's not flattering. The French nobility are in a competitive spiral of shame and bluster, each trying to out-express the others' outrage at what the English are doing to their country. The Constable thinks Henry will surrender when he sees the French army. The Dauphin wants to fight and is kept back. Nobody in this scene has a clear-eyed view of what's coming. The dramatic irony is total: we have just watched Henry take Harfleur; we know his army is sick and depleted; and we know Agincourt is coming. The French, strutting and fuming, have no idea.
If this happened today…
The executive team meeting where they've just got bad Q3 numbers and everyone is competing to sound the most urgent and serious about it, while the CEO is quietly keeping the one person who might actually fix things off the response team for political reasons. 'Our vineyards! Our honor! Our women are mocking us!' Meanwhile someone should probably be looking at the logistics spreadsheet.