_King._ Yes, good Philippa, 'tis our firm decree, And a full wise one too;--'tis but just recompense, For near twelve weary months, their stubbornness Has caused us linger out before their city. Should we not now resent, in future story Our English would be chronicled as dullards;-- These French would mock us for the snails of war, Who bring our houses on our sluggish backs, To winter it before their mould'ring walls; Nay, every village, circled by a ditch, Would think itself a town impregnable; Check the full vigour of our march, and worry Our armies with resistance. _Queen._ And yet, my liege, I cannot chuse but pity The wretched men, who now must suffer for it. _King._ Justice, madam, Minute in her stern exercise of office, Is comprehensive in effect; and when She points her sword to the particular, She aims at general good.-- [_Solemn Music, at a Distance._ But, hark! they come. Are they within our lines? _Sir W._ They are, my liege. _King._ Deliver up Sir John de Vienne. [_KING EDWARD and QUEEN seat themselves on a Throne, erected in the Camp, on the occasion of the Execution._ _Enter EUSTACHE de ST. PIERRE, with the Keys; RIBAUMONT, LA GLOIRE, JOHN D'AIRE, J. WISSANT, and P. WISSANT, with Halters round their Necks; a Multitude of French following._ _King._ Are these the six must suffer? _Eust._ Suffer!--no:---- We do embrace our fate: we glory in't. They who stand forward, sir, to yield their lives, A willing forfeit, for their country's safety, When they meet death, meet honour, and rejoice In the encounter. Suffer, is a term The upright, and undaunted spirit, blots From death's vocabulary. _King._ Now, beshrew thee, knave! Thou dost speak bluntly. _Eust._ Ay, and cheerily. But to our purpose.--I am bidden, sir, I and my noble comrades, here, of Calais, Thus lowly, at your feet, to tender to you Our city's keys;--[_Kneels and lays the Keys at the Foot of the Throne._]--and they do guard a treasure Well worth a king's acceptance; for they yield A golden opportunity to mightiness Of comforting the wretched. Take but these, And turn our ponderous portals on the hinge, And you will find, in every street, a document, A lesson, at each step, for iron power To feel for fellow men:--Our wasted soldiers Dropping upon their watch; the dying mother Wailing her famish'd child; the meagre son Grasping his father's hand in agony, Till their sunk eyes exchange a feeble gleam Of love and blessing, and they both expire. _King._ Your citizens may thank themselves for't; wilfulness Does ever thus recoil upon itself.