<SPEECH 1><ACT 4><SCENE 2><64%>
<GRANDPRÉ>	<65%>
	Why do you stay so long, my lords of France?
	Yon island carrions desperate of their bones,
	Ill-favour'dly become the morning field:
	Their ragged curtains poorly are let loose,
	And our air shakes them passing scornfully:
	Big Mars seems bankrupt in their beggar'd host,
	And faintly through a rusty beaver peeps:
	The horsemen sit like fixed candlesticks,
	With torch-staves in their hand; and their poor jades
	Lob down their heads, dropping the hides and hips,
	The gum down-roping from their pale-dead eyes,
	And in their pale dull mouths the gimmal bit
	Lies foul with chew'd grass, still and motionless;
	And their executors, the knavish crows,
	Fly o'er them, all impatient for their hour.
	Description cannot suit itself in words
	To demonstrate the life of such a battle
	In life so lifeless as it shows itself.
</GRANDPRÉ>

