Nay then, I cannot blame his cousin King That wished him on the barren mountains starve. Please don't accept his report right away and let it ruin the relationship between me and you, your Majesty. I answered this pointless, incoherent chatter casually, as I've already said. He said that this gunpowder has cowardly destroyed many good, valiant men, and if it wasn't for horrible guns, he would have been a soldier himself. His shiny face, sweet smell, and hearing him talk about guns, drums, and wounds with the voice of a lady-in-waiting made me so angry! For God's sake! He told me that the best thing for a wound is parmaceti and that it was a pity the innocent earth had to be dug up in order to extract the key ingredient for gunpowder. I don't know whether I told him whether or not he could have the prisoners. At that point, I was so annoyed by my unattended wounds and being pestered by that parrot, that I can't even remember what I said to him in my pain and my impatience to get away. He questioned me, with his fancy, ladylike language and told me that I had to give up the prisoners to your Majesty. As the soldiers were carrying the dead bodies past us, he called them unsophisticated idiots, and rude for bringing an ugly, disgusting corpse where he could smell it. He kept doing this as he continued to smile and talk to me. And he held a perfume box in his hand, which every so often he lifted to his nose, sniffed, and moved the box away again. He was refined and elegantly dressed-bright like a bridegroom-and his beard was freshly cut, like a field after a harvest. But I do remember that just after the battle, when I was parched with thirst after fighting, when I was breathless, faint, and resting on my sword, a certain lord arrived. My lord, I didn't deny you any prisoners. This bald unjointed chat of his, my lord, I answered indirectly, as I said, And I beseech you, let not his report Come current for an accusation Betwixt my love and your high Majesty. I then, all smarting with my wounds being cold, To be so pestered with a popinjay, Out of my grief and my impatience Answered neglectingly I know not what- He should, or he should not for he made me mad To see him shine so brisk and smell so sweet And talk so like a waiting-gentlewoman Of guns, and drums, and wounds-God save the mark!- And telling me the sovereignest thing on earth Was parmacety for an inward bruise, And that it was great pity, so it was, This villanous saltpeter should be digged Out of the bowels of the harmless earth, Which many a good tall fellow had destroyed So cowardly, and but for these vile guns He would himself have been a soldier. With many holiday and lady terms He questioned me amongst the rest demanded My prisoners in your Majesty’s behalf. And as the soldiers bore dead bodies by, He called them untaught knaves, unmannerly, To bring a slovenly unhandsome corse Betwixt the wind and his nobility. He was perfumèd like a milliner, And ’twixt his finger and his thumb he held A pouncet box, which ever and anon He gave his nose and took ’t away again, Who therewith angry, when it next came there, Took it in snuff and still he smiled and talked. But I remember, when the fight was done, When I was dry with rage and extreme toil, Breathless and faint, leaning upon my sword, Came there a certain lord, neat, and trimly dressed, Fresh as a bridegroom, and his chin new reaped Showed like a stubble land at harvest home.
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