Marg. The time's at hand, my lord; the enemy,

Hearing of succours daily flocking to us,

Is marching, as I gather, towards our camp—

Therefore, good Seneschal, look to our troops:

Keep all our men in readiness;—ride thro' the ranks,

And cheer the soldiery.—Come, bustle, bustle.

Oh! we'll not fail, I warrant!—How now, sirrah?

How came you here? [To the Fool.

Marg. I never saw a youth of better promise:

But say, young man, serve you here willingly

In these our wars? [To Adeline.

Adeline. Yes, madam, if it please you;

And, if my youth should lack ability,

I do beseech you, let my honest will

Atone for its defect:—yet I will say—

And yet I would not boast—that a weak boy

May show you that he is zealous in your service:

For tho' but green in years, alas! misfortune

Has sorely wrung my heart!—and the proud world,

(I blush for't, while I utter it)—must know

What 'tis to suffer, ere its thoughtless breast,

Callous in happiness, can warm with feeling

For others in distress.

Marg. Poor youth! I pity thee.

And for thy willingness, which I esteem

In friendly working more than if thou brought'st

The strength of Hercules to nerve our battle,

Should the just Heavens smile on our enterprise,

I will not, trust me, youth, forget thee.—

Now the news!

Mess. The enemy approaches. On the brow

of the next hill, rising a short mile hence,

Their colours wave.

La Var. Now then for the issue!

Marg. Ha!—So near! Who is't that leads their power?

Mess. The Marquis of Montague, so please your Majesty. [Exit.

Marg. Then he shall find us ready. Now, my lords!

Remember, half our hopes rest on this onset.—

Some one prepare the King.

[A Knight enters the Tent.

If on the border

Of England, here, we cut but boldly through

The troops opposed to intercept our passage,

The afterwork is easy:—

Where's my young son!—then, like a rolling flood,

That once has broke its mound, we'll pour upon

The affrighted country, sweeping all before

Our flood of power, till we penetrate

The very heart on't.——

Go, bring the Prince of Wales!—Now, gallant soldiers,

Fight lustily to-day, and all the rest

Is sport and holiday.

My son!—my boy.

Come to thy mother's bosom! Heaven, who sees

The anxious workings of a parent's heart,

Knows what I feel for thee! Alas! alas!

It grieves me sore to have thee here, my child!

The rough, unkindly blasts of pitiless war

Suit not thy tender years.

Prince. Why, mother,

Mustn't I be a soldier? And 'tis time

I should begin my exercise—by and bye

'Twill be too late to learn—and yet I wish

That I were bigger now, for your sake, mother.

Marg. Why, boy?

Prince. Oh! you know well enough, for all your asking.

Do you think, if I were strong enough to fight,

I'd let these raw-boned fellows plague you so?

Marg. My sweet, brave boy!—Come, lords, and gentlemen;

Let us go cheerily to work! If woman,

In whose weak, yielding breast, nature puts forth

Her softest composition, can shake off

Her idle fears,—what may not you perform?

And you shall see me now, steel'd by th' occasion,

So far unsex myself, that tho' grim death

(Breaking the pale of time) shall stride the field,

With slaught'rous step,—and, prematurely, plunge

His dart in vigorous bosoms, till the earth

Is purple-dyed in gore—still will I stand

Fix'd as the oak, when tempests sweep the forest.

But, still, one woman's fear—one touch of nature,

Tugs at my heartstrings—'tis for thee, my child!

—Oh! may the white-robed angel,

That watches over baby innocence,

Hear a fond mother's prayer, and in the battle

Cast his protecting mantle round thee!—On—

Away. [Exit.