ARTOIS

Three sons of his, which all successfully, Did fit upon their father's regal Throne: Yet died and left no issue of their loins: Hhere comes his highness. Neither my Lord, but narrowly beset, With turning Frenchmen, whom he did pursue, As 'tis impossible that he should escape. Except your highness presently descend. She was my Lord, and only Issabel, Was all the daughters that this Philip had, Whom afterwards your father took to wife: And from the fragrant garden of her womb, Your gracious self the flower of Europes hope: Derived is inheritor to France. But not the rancour of rebellious minds: When thus the lineage of Bew was out; The French obscured your mother's Privilege, And though she were the next of blood, proclaimed John of the house of Valois now their king: The reason was, they say the Realm of France, Repleat with Princes of great parentage, Ought not admit a governor to rule, Except he be descended of the male, And thats the special ground of their contempt: Where with they study to exclude your grace: But they shall find that forged ground of theirs, To be but dusty heaps, of brittile sand. Perhaps it will be thought a heinous thing, That I a French man should discover this, But heaven I call to record of my vows, It is not hate nor any private wrong, But love unto my country and the right, Provokes my tongue thus lavish in report. You are the lyneal watch men of our peace, And John of Valois, in directly climbs, What then should subjects but embrace their King, Ah where in may our duty more be seen, Then striving to rebate a tyrants pride, And place the true shepherd of our commonwealth, e soundest counsel I can give his grace, Is to surrender ere he be constrained. A voluntary mischief hath less scorn, Then when reproach with violence is born, Edward Plantagener prince of Wales, Hold take this target, wear it on thy arm, And may the view thereof Like Perscus shield, Astonish and transform thy gazing foes To senseless images of meger death, Fight and be valiant, couquer where thou comest. Oh would my life might ransom him from death. How fares your grace, are you not shot my Lord? Breath then, and too 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, Oh for more arrows Lord, thats our want.