In the ceremony Francis addresses Lautrec:--
FRANCIS.
With our own royal hand we'll buckle on
The sword, that in thy grasp must be the bulwark
And lode-star of our host. Approach.
QUEEN.
Not so.
Your pardon, sir; but it hath ever been
The pride and privilege of woman's hand
To arm the valour that she loves so well:
We would not, for your crown's best jewel, bate
One jot of our accustom'd state to-day:
Count Lautrec, we will arm thee, at our feet:
Take thou the brand which wins thy country's wars,--
Thy monarch's trust, and thy fair lady's favour.
Why, how now!--how is this!--my lord of Bourbon!
If we mistake not, 'tis the sword of office
Which graces still your baldrick;--with your leave,
We'll borrow it of you.
BOURBON (_starting up_.)
Ay, madam, 'tis the sword
You buckled on with your own hand, the day
You sent me forth to conquer in your cause;
And there it is;--(_breaks the sword_)--take it--and with it all
Th' allegiance that I owe to France; ay take it;
And with it, take the hope I breathe o'er it:
That so, before Colonna's host, your arms
Lie crush'd and sullied with dishonour's stain;
So, reft in sunder by contending factions,
Be your Italian provinces; so torn
By discord and dissension this vast empire;
So broken and disjoin'd your subjects' loves;
So fallen your son's ambition, and your pride.
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