My Lord Melun, let this be copied out,
And keep it safe for our remembrance.
Return the precedent to these lords again;
That, having our fair order written down,
Both they and we, perusing o’er these notes,
May know wherefore we took the sacrament,
And keep our faiths firm and inviolable.
My Lord Melun, make a copy of this and keep it safe as a record for us. Give the original back to these nobles; so that, having our fair agreement written down, both they and we, reviewing these words, may remember why we took this sacred oath, and keep our commitments firm and unbroken.
Lord Melun, copy this down and keep it somewhere safe for our records. Hand the original back to these lords so we can all review what we agreed to and remember why we swore this oath—it helps us keep our promises strong.
copy this agreement keep it safe for records give original back to nobles so we remember our oath
Upon our sides it never shall be broken.
And, noble Dauphin, albeit we swear
A voluntary zeal and an unurg’d faith
To your proceedings; yet believe me, prince,
I am not glad that such a sore of time
Should seek a plaster by contemn’d revolt,
And heal the inveterate canker of one wound
By making many. O, it grieves my soul
That I must draw this metal from my side
To be a widow-maker! O, and there
Where honourable rescue and defence
Cries out upon the name of Salisbury!
But such is the infection of the time,
That, for the health and physic of our right,
We cannot deal but with the very hand
Of stern injustice and confused wrong.
And is’t not pity, O my grieved friends,
That we, the sons and children of this isle,
Were born to see so sad an hour as this;
Wherein we step after a stranger, march
Upon her gentle bosom, and fill up
Her enemies’ ranks? I must withdraw and weep
Upon the spot of this enforced cause,
To grace the gentry of a land remote,
And follow unacquainted colours here.
What, here? O nation, that thou couldst remove!
That Neptune’s arms, who clippeth thee about,
Would bear thee from the knowledge of thyself
And grapple thee unto a pagan shore,
Where these two Christian armies might combine
The blood of malice in a vein of league,
And not to spend it so unneighbourly!
My allegiance to your side will never be broken. And, noble Dauphin, though we swear our willing support and heartfelt faith to your cause; believe me, prince, I grieve that such a serious crisis should require rebellion as treatment, and that we must heal one deep wound by creating many new ones. It troubles my soul that I must draw this sword from my side to make widows! And it weighs on me that duty and defense cry out for Salisbury's name! But that's how corrupted our times have become— that for the sake of justice, we cannot help but use cruel force and wrongful means. And isn't it a tragedy, my grieving friends, that we, born children of this island, live to see such a terrible day; when we must follow a foreigner, march over our own mother England, and fill the enemy ranks? I must step aside and weep about this forced cause, to help a foreign power, and fight under foreign flags. What, here? Oh England, if only you could move! If only Neptune's arms that hold you would carry you away from knowing yourself and take you to a distant shore, where these Christian armies might spill blood for kinship instead of for war!
Our loyalty to you will never waver. But, Dauphin, even though we swear our willing support to you, I have to say—I hate that we're here. It's like we're treating a terrible disease by making more wounds. My heart breaks that I have to pull this sword out and make enemies. Where I'm supposed to defend England, I'm now fighting against her! This is how sick our times are—we can't get justice without doing wrong. Don't we deserve better than this? We're England's children, born here, and now we're marching over our own mother to help a foreigner and fight under his flag. England, I wish you could fly away from this disaster and never know what we're doing to you!
loyal to u but i hate this cant heal this wound without making worse ones should be defending england not fighting for france england i wish u could escape this
A noble temper dost thou show in this;
And great affections wrestling in thy bosom
Doth make an earthquake of nobility.
O, what a noble combat hast thou fought
Between compulsion and a brave respect!
Let me wipe off this honourable dew
That silverly doth progress on thy cheeks.
My heart hath melted at a lady’s tears,
Being an ordinary inundation;
But this effusion of such manly drops,
This shower, blown up by tempest of the soul,
Startles mine eyes and makes me more amaz’d
Than had I seen the vaulty top of heaven
Figur’d quite o’er with burning meteors.
Lift up thy brow, renowned Salisbury,
And with a great heart heave away this storm.
Commend these waters to those baby eyes
That never saw the giant world enrag’d,
Nor met with fortune other than at feasts,
Full of warm blood, of mirth, of gossiping.
Come, come; for thou shalt thrust thy hand as deep
Into the purse of rich prosperity
As Louis himself.—So, nobles, shall you all,
That knit your sinews to the strength of mine.
And even there, methinks, an angel spake.
You show genuine nobility in this moment; and great inner conflicts shake the foundations of your heart. What a noble battle you've fought between duty and honor! Let me wipe away these tears that honorably flow down your face. My heart has melted at a woman's tears, which happen all the time; but these tears from such a strong man, this storm blown up by your soul's conflict, amazes my eyes more than if I'd seen the sky itself covered with blazing meteors. Lift your head, renowned Salisbury, and with a strong heart push aside this sorrow. Leave these tears for young eyes that have never seen the world in chaos, or known anything but joy and comfort. Come now; you'll gain as much wealth from victory as anyone else.—So will all of you, who add your strength to mine. And just then an angel seemed to speak.
You're showing real dignity right now. Inside you, two powerful feelings are clashing. What an incredible struggle you're having between what you have to do and what's right! Let me wipe these tears from your face—they're honorable tears. I've cried at a woman's sadness plenty of times, but these tears from a powerful man, this storm inside your soul, they shake me more than seeing meteors in the sky. Hold your head up, Salisbury, and be strong. Let younger men cry—they don't understand what's at stake yet. You'll do well in this. All of you will, if you stay with me. I felt like an angel was blessing this.
showing real nobility tearing up from the conflict thats way stronger than weakness hold ur head up youll be rewarded stay with me
Look, where the holy legate comes apace,
To give us warrant from the hand of heaven,
And on our actions set the name of right
With holy breath.
Look, the holy papal representative is coming quickly to give us authorization from heaven and to make our actions appear righteous with divine blessing.
Look, here comes the papal representative, moving fast, to give us blessing from God and make our actions look righteous.
look the pope's rep is coming to bless us from god to make us look right
In Act 3, Pandulph was the most powerful man on stage — he excommunicated a king, broke an alliance, and set a war in motion with the precision of a chess grandmaster. His plan was elegant: use Louis to pressure John, then recall Louis when John submitted. What the plan required was for Louis to remain an instrument. Louis refuses. What is extraordinary about this scene is how small Pandulph becomes as Louis speaks. His one-line response — 'You look but on the outside of this work' — is almost poignant: he knows something Louis doesn't, and he can't make anyone listen. By the end, he is asking the Bastard for permission to speak. The same man who ordered kings around in Act 3 is now, in Act 5, irrelevant. Shakespeare is making a structural argument: institutional power only works when the institutions hold. The moment Louis decides his personal sovereignty outweighs the papal legate's authority, Pandulph becomes nothing.
Hail, noble prince of France!
The next is this: King John hath reconcil’d
Himself to Rome; his spirit is come in,
That so stood out against the holy church,
The great metropolis and see of Rome.
Therefore thy threat’ning colours now wind up,
And tame the savage spirit of wild war,
That, like a lion foster’d up at hand,
It may lie gently at the foot of peace
And be no further harmful than in show.
Welcome, noble prince of France! I bring you this news: King John has made peace with Rome; he has submitted, he who stood so firmly against the church, the great power and authority of Rome. Therefore you must lower your military flags, and calm this wild war, which, like a lion raised in captivity, can now lie quietly at peace's feet and cause no more harm than appearance.
Greetings, Prince! King John has made peace with Rome. He finally bowed to the church after all this resistance. So you need to stand down now—bring your armies back and let this war end quietly, like a trained lion at rest.
king john made peace with rome u should stand down now war is over
Your grace shall pardon me, I will not back.
I am too high-born to be propertied,
To be a secondary at control,
Or useful serving-man and instrument
To any sovereign state throughout the world.
Your breath first kindled the dead coal of wars
Between this chastis’d kingdom and myself,
And brought in matter that should feed this fire;
And now ’tis far too huge to be blown out
With that same weak wind which enkindled it.
You taught me how to know the face of right,
Acquainted me with interest to this land,
Yea, thrust this enterprise into my heart;
And come ye now to tell me John hath made
His peace with Rome? What is that peace to me?
I, by the honour of my marriage-bed,
After young Arthur, claim this land for mine;
And, now it is half-conquer’d, must I back
Because that John hath made his peace with Rome?
Am I Rome’s slave? What penny hath Rome borne,
What men provided, what munition sent,
To underprop this action? Is’t not I
That undergo this charge? Who else but I,
And such as to my claim are liable,
Sweat in this business and maintain this war?
Have I not heard these islanders shout out
_Vive le Roi!_ as I have bank’d their towns?
Have I not here the best cards for the game
To win this easy match play’d for a crown?
And shall I now give o’er the yielded set?
No, no, on my soul, it never shall be said.
Your Grace, I must refuse. I am too noble-born to be used as a tool, to serve under someone else's control, or to be a servant and instrument to any king in the world. Your own actions started this war between this weakened kingdom and myself, and you brought the supplies to fuel this fire; and now it's far too large to be extinguished by the weak wind that lit it. You taught me to see what's right, made me understand my claim to this land, and thrust this ambition into my heart; and now you tell me John has made peace with Rome? What does that matter to me? I have sworn on my marriage-bed that after Arthur, this land is mine; and now that I've half-conquered it, should I give up because John made peace with Rome? Am I Rome's servant? What has Rome contributed? What troops has Rome provided, what weapons sent, to support this conquest? Am I not the one who bears this burden? Who else but I, along with those who support my claim, fight and die in this war? Haven't these islanders shouted _Long live the King!_ as I took their towns? Don't I hold all the best chances to win this easy game fought for a crown? And should I now give up when victory is close? No, never—I swear by my soul, it will never be said.
With respect, no. I'm too proud to be used like a tool, or to answer to someone else's authority, or to serve any king in the world. You're the one who started this war between me and England, and you brought the armies to fuel it. Now it's too massive to stop with the small breeze that started it. You convinced me I had a claim here, pushed me to invade, and now you're telling me John made peace with Rome? So what? I swore I'd take this crown after Arthur, and I've almost got it. Why would I stop now because the Pope forgave John? I'm not Rome's property! I put all the forces here, I'm the one fighting. Haven't the English people cheered for me as I conquered their towns? I hold all the cards. I'm not backing down.
no way im giving up u started this war im not rome's servant i put in all the work i have the crown almost im not stopping now
You look but on the outside of this work.
You're only looking at the surface of this situation.
You're not seeing the bigger picture here.
ur missing the bigger picture
Outside or inside, I will not return
Till my attempt so much be glorified
As to my ample hope was promised
Before I drew this gallant head of war,
And cull’d these fiery spirits from the world,
To outlook conquest and to win renown
Even in the jaws of danger and of death.
Whether it's the surface or something deeper, I won't retreat until my victory matches the grand promises that were made to me before I brought my army here and gathered these fierce warriors to seek conquest and win glory even when facing danger and death.
Surface or not, I'm not leaving until I've won everything I was promised when I started this invasion. I brought my best fighters here to conquer, and I'm going to succeed or die trying.
not leaving til i win promised me glory im doing this or dying
What lusty trumpet thus doth summon us?
What bold trumpet is this that summons us?
Who's playing that trumpet calling us?
who's blowing that trumpet?
Salisbury's speech in 5-2 is one of Shakespeare's most unusual pieces of political writing: a man cataloguing, in exquisite detail, exactly why what he is doing is wrong — and doing it anyway. 'I am not glad that such a sore of time / Should seek a plaster by contemn'd revolt' is a remarkable sentence: he names his own rebellion as 'condemned' while pledging to continue it. His vision of England as a woman being marched upon, her gentle bosom filled with enemy troops, is deeply felt and entirely genuine. He weeps. Louis wipes his tears. The scene is not cynical — Salisbury is not performing his grief for political effect. He is, by the logic of the play, genuinely tragic: a loyal man in a situation where loyalty has become impossible, because the king he should be loyal to has made loyalty indistinguishable from complicity in injustice.
According to the fair play of the world,
Let me have audience; I am sent to speak,
My holy lord of Milan, from the King
I come to learn how you have dealt for him;
And, as you answer, I do know the scope
And warrant limited unto my tongue.
By the rules of fair conduct, let me be heard; I have been sent to speak, my Lord Cardinal, from the King I come to learn what you've accomplished for him; and based on your answer, I will know what authority my words carry here.
I'm here as the King's messenger. Please let me speak. I want to know what you've done to help the King, and that will tell me how much authority I have to negotiate.
im kings messenger let me speak what have u done for the king
The Dauphin is too wilful-opposite,
And will not temporize with my entreaties;
He flatly says he’ll not lay down his arms.
The Dauphin is too stubborn and defiant, and refuses to listen to my pleas; he flatly refuses to put down his weapons.
The Dauphin is too hardheaded to listen to reason. He's point-blank refusing to lay down his arms.
dauphin wont listen refuses to surrender
By all the blood that ever fury breath’d,
The youth says well. Now hear our English king,
For thus his royalty doth speak in me:
He is prepar’d, and reason too he should.
This apish and unmannerly approach,
This harness’d masque and unadvised revel,
This unhair’d sauciness and boyish troops,
The King doth smile at; and is well prepar’d
To whip this dwarfish war, these pigmy arms,
From out the circle of his territories.
That hand which had the strength, even at your door,
To cudgel you and make you take the hatch,
To dive like buckets in concealed wells,
To crouch in litter of your stable planks,
To lie like pawns lock’d up in chests and trunks,
To hug with swine, to seek sweet safety out
In vaults and prisons, and to thrill and shake
Even at the crying of your nation’s crow,
Thinking this voice an armed Englishman;
Shall that victorious hand be feebled here
That in your chambers gave you chastisement?
No! Know the gallant monarch is in arms
And like an eagle o’er his aery towers
To souse annoyance that comes near his nest.—
And you degenerate, you ingrate revolts,
You bloody Neroes, ripping up the womb
Of your dear mother England, blush for shame!
For your own ladies and pale-visag’d maids
Like Amazons come tripping after drums,
Their thimbles into armed gauntlets change,
Their needles to lances, and their gentle hearts
To fierce and bloody inclination.
By all the blood that ever rage has shed, the young prince is right. Now hear what England's king has to say through me: He is prepared, and well he should be. This foolish and insulting approach, this armed mockery and reckless invasion, this impudent youth and boy soldiers— the King finds amusing; and he is ready to crush this tiny war, these insignificant forces, from his territories. That hand which had the power, even at your door, to beat you and make you run away, to dive like desperate men in hidden wells, to hide like animals in stable straw, to lie trapped in trunks and chests, to crawl with swine, to hide in dungeons and prisons, and to shake with fear even at the cries of an English bird, thinking it was an armed soldier— shall that same hand be weakened here, that once punished you in your own rooms? No! Know that the glorious king is armed and like an eagle over his nest flies down to strike any threat.— And you are traitors, ungrateful rebels, you bloody tyrants, tearing apart the womb of your mother England, feel shame! Your own ladies and pale young women like warriors march after the drums, trading their thimbles for armored gloves, their needles for spears, and their gentle hearts for violent, bloody passion.
The prince is absolutely right. Now listen to what England's king says through me: He's ready for you—and he should be! This pathetic invasion, this armed playacting, this reckless young army—the King laughs at it! He's about to crush this pathetic force out of his territories. The hand that once beat you into submission at your own gates, that made you hide like rats in wells and cellars, that hand is still strong. Do you really think it's weakened now? The King is armed and ready, like an eagle protecting his nest. And you rebels who are fighting England itself—feel shame! You're dragging your own mothers and sisters into this, making them into soldiers instead of keeping them safe.
prince is right kings crushing u the hand that beat u before is still strong feels shame making ur own women fight
There end thy brave, and turn thy face in peace;
We grant thou canst outscold us. Fare thee well;
We hold our time too precious to be spent
With such a brabbler.
That's the end of your bluster, so turn away; we acknowledge you can outwalk us in words. Farewell; we value our time too highly to spend it with such a loud-mouthed fool.
Okay, that's enough talking. We get it—you're a better speaker than us. Go on, leave. We're not wasting more time on you.
thats enough go away we dont have time for this
Give me leave to speak.
Please allow me to speak.
Let me say something.
let me talk
The Bastard's speech in 5-2-019 is one of the play's most technically brilliant pieces of rhetoric — and it is entirely a bluff. He knows, as we know, that John is sick and has surrendered the crown, that half England has defected, that London welcomed Louis. His speech catalogues French military humiliations (hiding in haystacks, trembling at roosters) that belong to a different era of English dominance. He performs confidence he doesn't have, for an audience that knows the situation better than he pretends. Shakespeare never lets us forget this: the Bastard's 'glitter like the god of war' advice to John (5-1) is now his own strategy here. He is acting the warrior king that John cannot be. The speech works theatrically — Louis does dismiss it as bragging, but the Bastard has the last line, and the symmetry is perfect. Whether it will work militarily is another question, and Act 5 does not let England off the hook.
No, I will speak.
No, let me be heard instead.
No, I'm going to speak.
im talking
We will attend to neither.
Strike up the drums; and let the tongue of war,
Plead for our interest and our being here.
We will listen to neither. Start the drums; and let the sound of war speak for our interests and our reasons for being here.
We're done listening. Play the drums instead. Let the sounds of battle do our talking.
stop talking lets fight drums now
Indeed, your drums, being beaten, will cry out;
And so shall you, being beaten. Do but start
And echo with the clamour of thy drum,
And even at hand a drum is ready brac’d
That shall reverberate all as loud as thine.
Indeed, your drums, when beaten, will cry out; and so will you, being beaten. Go ahead and strike your drum with all its noise, and there's another drum standing ready that will answer just as loudly as yours.
Sure, go ahead and beat your drums—but we've got drums too, and they'll echo just as loud when we beat you.
ur drums will cry out so will u when we beat u weve got louder drums
As loud as thine, rattle the welkin’s ear
And mock the deep-mouth’d thunder. For at hand,
Not trusting to this halting legate here,
Whom he hath us’d rather for sport than need,
Is warlike John; and in his forehead sits
A bare-ribb’d death, whose office is this day
To feast upon whole thousands of the French.
Our drums will be as loud, shaking the sky and mocking the deep thunder. Nearby—not trusting this weak legate, whom he used only for entertainment rather than real help—stands warrior King John. And death itself sits on his forehead, ready today to consume thousands of your French soldiers.
Our drums will shake the sky just as loud, mocking the thunder. Right nearby, not trusting that useless papal rep he only used for show, stands the warrior King John. And death rides on his brow, ready today to kill thousands of your French soldiers.
our drums shake the sky mocking the thunder king john's near he doesn't trust that legate death on his brow ready to kill thousands of french
Strike up our drums, to find this danger out.
Beat the drums to find out where this threat is.
Sound the drums and let's find out what we're facing.
sound the drums lets see what happens
And thou shalt find it, Dauphin, do not doubt.
And you'll find it, Dauphin, don't doubt that.
You'll find out soon enough, Dauphin.
youll find out dauphin
The Reckoning
This scene is where the play's two main threads collide: Pandulph's plan to use Louis as a lever against John, then retrieve him, runs straight into Louis's refusal to be retrieved. The cardinal started this war, but he no longer controls it. Louis has invested too much to walk away for a deal he wasn't party to. And then the Bastard arrives, not to negotiate, but to insult — and the insult is magnificent. The scene ends not with words but with a drum, which is the perfect answer: Louis has moved beyond argument into action.
If this happened today…
A venture capitalist backed a startup's hostile takeover bid, then the target company settled out of court with the VC's firm. The VC assumes the takeover is off. The startup founder — who has spent eight months, personal capital, and reputational credit on the campaign — tells the VC: 'You started this, you don't get to end it. I'm too far in.' The company's top negotiator then shows up at the startup's board meeting and delivers a blistering speech about how outgunned they are. The founder responds by opening the laptop and starting the next phase of the campaign while the negotiator is still talking.