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.