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Why do you stay so long, my lords of France? Yond island carrions, desperate of their bones, Ill-favoredly become the morning field. Their ragged curtains poorly are let loose, And our air shakes them passing scornfully. Big Mars seems bankrupt in their beggared host And faintly through a rusty beaver peeps. The horsemen sit like fixèd candlesticks With torch staves in their hand, and their poor jades Lob down their heads, drooping the hides and hips, The gum down-roping from their pale dead eyes, And in their pale dull mouths the gemeled bit Lies foul with chawed grass, still and motionless. And their executors, the knavish crows, Fly o’er them all, impatient for their hour. Description cannot suit itself in words To demonstrate the life of such a battle In life so lifeless, as it shows itself.