Think how it ends all, death! all other things Can somehow be retrieved, yea, send me forth Naked and maimed, rather than slay me here; Then somehow will I get me other clothes, And somehow will I get me some poor horse, And, somehow clad in poor old rusty arms, Will ride and smite among the serried glaives, Fear not death so; for I can tilt right well, Let me not say I could; I know all tricks, That sway the sharp sword cunningly; ah you, You, my Lord Clisson, in the other days Have seen me learning these, yea, call to mind, How in the trodden corn by Chartres town, When you were nearly swooning from the back Of your black horse, those three blades slid at once From off my sword's edge; pray for me, my lord! CLISSON. Nay, this is pitiful, to see him die. My Lord the Constable, I pray you note That you are losing some few thousand crowns By slaying this man; also think: his lands Along the Garonne river lie for leagues, And are right rich, a many mills he has, Three abbeys of grey monks do hold of him: Though wishing well for Clement, as we do, I know the next heir, his old uncle, well, Who does not care two deniers for the knight As things go now, but slay him, and then see, How he will bristle up like any perch, With curves of spears. What! do not doubt, my lord, You'll get the money, this man saved my life, And I will buy him for two thousand crowns; Well, five then: eh! what! No again? well then, Ten thousand crowns? GUESCLIN. My sweet lord, much I grieve I cannot please you, yea, good sooth, I grieve This knight must die, as verily he must; For I have sworn it, so men take him out, Use him not roughly. SIR LAMBERT, _coming forward_.