KING JOHN. France, hast thou yet more blood to cast away?

          Say, shall the current of our right run on?

          Whose passage, vex'd with thy impediment,

          Shall leave his native channel and o'erswell

          With course disturb'd even thy confining shores,

          Unless thou let his silver water keep

          A peaceful progress to the ocean.

        KING PHILIP. England, thou hast not sav'd one drop of blood

          In this hot trial more than we of France;

          Rather, lost more. And by this hand I swear,

          That sways the earth this climate overlooks,

          Before we will lay down our just-borne arms,

          We'll put thee down, 'gainst whom these arms we bear,

          Or add a royal number to the dead,

          Gracing the scroll that tells of this war's loss

          With slaughter coupled to the name of kings.

        BASTARD. Ha, majesty! how high thy glory tow'rs

          When the rich blood of kings is set on fire!

          O, now doth Death line his dead chaps with steel;

          The swords of soldiers are his teeth, his fangs;