This historic book may have numerous typos and missing text. Purchasers can usually download a free scanned copy of the original book (without typos) from the publisher. Not indexed. Not illustrated. 1854 edition. Excerpt: ... And to 't with stones: Away, Artois, away; My soul doth prophesy we win the day. Exeunt. Alarums, and Parties skirmishing. Enter King John. Joh. Our multitudes are in themselves confounded, Dismayed, and distraught; swift-starting fear Hath buzz'd a cold dismay through all our army, And every petty disadvantage prompts The fear-possessed abject soul to fly: Myself, whose spirit is steel to their dull lead, (What with recalling of the prophesy, And that our native stones from English arms Rebel against us) find myself attainted With strong surprize of weak and yielding fear. Enter Charles. Cha. Fly, father, fly the French do kill the French; Some, that would stand, let drive at some that fly: Our drums strike nothing but discouragement, Our trumpets sound dishonour and retire; The spirit of fear, that feareth nought but death, Cowardly works confusion on itself. Enter Philip. Phi. Pluck out your eyes, and see not this days' shame An arm hath beat an army; one poor David Hath with a stone foil'd twenty stout Goliahs: Some twenty naked starvelings, with small flints, Have driven back a puissant host of men, Array'd and fene'd in all accomplements. Joh. Mordieu, they quoit at us, and kill us up; No less than forty thousand wicked elders Have forty lean slaves this day ston'd to death. Clia. O, that I were some other countryman This day hath set derision on the French; And all the world will hlurt and scorn at us. Joh. What, is there no hope left? Phi. No hope, but death, to bury up our shame. Joh. Make up once more with me; the twentieth part Of those that live, are men enough to quail The feeble handful on the adverse part. Cha. Then charge again: if heaven be not oppos'd, We cannot lose the day. Joh. On, on; away. Exeunt. Alarums, &c....