The royal residence at Chinon. DUNOIS and DUCHATEL. DUNOIS. No longer I'll endure it. I renounce This recreant monarch who forsakes himself. My valiant heart doth bleed, and I could rain Hot tear-drops from mine eyes, that robber-swords Partition thus the royal realm of France; That cities, ancient as the monarchy, Deliver to the foe the rusty keys, While here in idle and inglorious ease We lose the precious season of redemption. Tidings of Orleans' peril reach mine ear, Hither I sped from distant Normandy, Thinking, arrayed in panoply of war, To find the monarch with his marshalled hosts; And find him—here! begirt with troubadours,    And juggling knaves, engaged in solving riddles, And planning festivals in Sorel's honor, As brooded o'er the land profoundest peace! The Constable hath gone; he will not brook Longer the spectacle of shame. I, too, Depart, and leave him to his evil fate. DUCHATEL. Here comes the king. 

  

       SCENE II.     

       KING CHARLES. The same. CHARLES. The Constable hath sent us back his sword And doth renounce our service. Now, by heaven! He thus hath rid us of a churlish man, Who insolently sought to lord it o'er us. DUNOIS. A man is precious in such perilous times; I would not deal thus lightly with his loss. CHARLES. Thou speakest thus from love of opposition; While he was here thou never wert his friend. DUNOIS. He was a tiresome, proud, vexatious fool, Who never could resolve. For once, however, He hath resolved. Betimes he goeth hence, Where honor can no longer be achieved. CHARLES. Thou'rt in a pleasant humor; undisturbed I'll leave thee to enjoy it. Hark, Duchatel! Ambassadors are here from old King Rene, Of tuneful songs the master, far renowned. Let them as honored guests be entertained, And unto each present a chain of gold.       [To the Bastard. Why smilest thou, Dunois? DUNOIS. That from thy mouth Thou shakest golden chains. DUCHATEL. Alas! my king! No gold existeth in thy treasury. CHARLES. Then gold must be procured. It must not be That bards unhonored from our court depart.    'Tis they who make our barren sceptre bloom,    'Tis they who wreath around our fruitless crown Life's joyous branch of never-fading green. Reigning, they justly rank themselves as kings, Of gentle wishes they erect their throne, Their harmless realm existeth not in space; Hence should the bard accompany the king, Life's higher sphere the heritage of both!     

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