SCENE [4]
in Sir Thomas Dagworth's Tent. Dagworth and William his Man.
Dagw.
Bring hither my armour, William; Ambition is the growth of ev'ry clime.
Will.
Does it grow in England, Sir?
Dagw.
Aye, it grows most in lands most cultivated.
Will.
Then it grows most in France; the vines here
Are finer than any we have in England.
Dagw.
Aye, but the oaks are not.
Will.
What is the tree you mentioned? I don't think I ever saw it.
Dagw.
Ambition.
Will.
Is it a little creeping root that grows in ditches?
Dagw.
Thou dost not understand me, William.
It is a root that grows in every breast;
Ambition is the desire or passion that one man
Has to get before another, in any pursuit after glory;
But I don't think you have any of it.
Will.
Yes, I have; I have a great ambition to know every thing, Sir.
Dagw.
But when our first ideas are wrong, what follows must all be
wrong of course; 'tis best to know a little, and to know that little aright.
Will.
Then, Sir, I should be glad to know if it was not ambition that
brought over our King to France to fight for his right?
Dagw.
Tho' the knowledge of that will not profit thee much, yet I
will tell you that it was ambition.
Will.
Then if ambition is a sin, we are all guilty in coming with
him, and in fighting for him.
Dagw.
Now, William, thou dost thrust the question home; but I
must tell you, that guilt being an act of the mind, none are guilty
but those whose minds are prompted by that same ambition.
Will.
Now I always thought, that a man might be guilty of doing
wrong, without knowing it was wrong.
Dagw.
Thou art a natural philosopher, and knowest truth by instinct;
while reason runs aground, as we have run our argument. Only
remember, William, all have it in their power to know the motives of
their own actions, and 'tis a sin to act without some reason.
Will.
And whoever acts without reason, may do a great deal of harm
without knowing it.
Dagw.
Thou art an endless moralist.
Will.
Now there's a story come into my head, that I will tell your
honour, if you'll give me leave.
Dagw.
No, William, save it till another time; this is no time for storytelling;
but here comes one who is as entertaining as a good story.
Enter Peter Blunt.
Peter.
Yonder's a musician going to play before the King; it's a new
song about the French and English, and the Prince has made the
minstrel a 'squire, and given him I don't know what, and I can't tell
whether he don't mention us all one by one; and he is to write another
about all us that are to die, that we may be remembered in Old England,
for all our blood and bones are in France; and a great deal more
that we shall all hear by and by; and I came to tell your honour, because
you love to hear war-songs.
Dagw.
And who is this minstrel, Peter, do'st know?
Peter.
O aye, I forgot to tell that; he has got the same name as Sir
John Chandos, that the prince is always with—the wise man, that
knows us all as well as your honour, only e'nt so good natur'd.
Dagw.
I thank you, Peter, for your information, but not for your
compliment, which is not true; there's as much difference between him
and me, as between glittering sand and fruitful mold; or shining glass
and a wrought diamond, set in rich gold, and fitted to the finger of an
emperor: such is that worthy Chandos.
Peter.
I know your honour does not think any thing of yourself, but
every body else does.
Dagw.
Go, Peter, get you gone; flattery is delicious, even from the
lips of a babbler.
[Exit Peter.
Will.
I never flatter your honour.
Dagw.
I don't know that.
Will.
Why you know, Sir, when we were in England, at the tournament
at Windsor, and the Earl of Warwick was tumbled over, you
ask'd me if he did not look well when he fell? and I said, No, he look'd
very foolish; and you was very angry with me for not flattering you.
Dagw.
You mean that I was angry with you for not flattering the
Earl of Warwick.
[Exeunt.
