Please a poor silly girl by telling me What all those things they talk of really were, For it is true you did not help Chandos, And true, poor love! you could not come to me When I was in such peril. I should say: I am like Balen, all things turn to blame. I did not come to you? At Bergerath The constable had held us close shut up, If from the barriers I had made three steps, I should have been but slain; at Lusac, too, We struggled in a marish half the day, And came too late at last: you know, my love, How heavy men and horses are all arm'd. All that Sir Lambert said was pure, unmix'd, Quite groundless lies; as you can think, sweet love. She, holding tight my hand as we sat there, Started a little at Sir Lambert's name, But otherwise she listen'd scarce at all To what I said. Then with moist, weeping eyes, And quivering lips, that scarcely let her speak, She said: I love you. Other words were few, The remnant of that hour; her hand smooth'd down My foolish head; she kiss'd me all about My face, and through the tangles of my beard Her little fingers crept! O God, my Alice, Not this good way: my lord but sent and said That Lambert's sayings were taken at their worth, Therefore that day I was to start, and keep This hold against the French; and I am here: [_Looks out of the window._ A sprawling lonely garde with rotten walls, And no one to bring aid if Guesclin comes, Or any other. There's a pennon now! At last. But not the constable's: whose arms, I wonder, does it bear? Three golden rings On a red ground; my cousin's by the rood! Well, I should like to kill him, certainly, But to be kill'd by him: [_A trumpet sounds._ That's for a herald; I doubt this does not mean assaulting yet. _Enter_ John Curzon. What says the herald of our cousin, sir? JOHN CURZON. So please you, sir, concerning your estate, He has good will to talk with you. SIR PETER. Outside, I'll talk with him, close by the gate St. Ives. Is he unarm'd? JOHN CURZON. Yea, sir, in a long gown. SIR PETER.